


Kleptolagnia

by Seanymphe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Possessive Behavior, Step-parents, Unhealthy Relationships, canon has no power here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seanymphe/pseuds/Seanymphe
Summary: What begins as a game of cat and mouse between Tom and his step mother spirals into something neither of them can control.





	1. We're Both Addicts

**Author's Note:**

> Be aware going in that this is a taboo trope in a "canon has been taken out back and shot" AU. The relationships portrayed are not healthy and may make you uncomfortable. If you're not into that, good for you but this won't be a fic you want to continue reading. Finally, please note that I am the author, not the narrator, and that the narrative expressed is not representative of my own ideals.

It hadn't started this way.

To be fair, it never does, though the question of whether or not he should have known better was rendered irrelevant by the reality.

No one starts out an addict.

Sure, maybe you're genetically predisposed, or you've got some impulse control issues, or maybe you're just going through a rough time. But none of that matters, not in the long run, because you're not an addict until you are. And when you're not an addict, it's exhilarating. It's all fun and games. You can stop at any time. You're just doing it because you like it, _because you're not an addict_.

Until you're not anymore.

Maybe you still like it. Maybe you don't. Maybe it's still giving you that same rush it did before. Maybe it's not. Your feelings on the matter no longer hold any weight. Now it's different, no matter how you feel about it.

Now you can't stop.

Not if you wanted to. Not even if you tried.

The core of addiction is its priority. When you're an addict, that's all there is. Nothing will ever come before your addiction. Not your education. Not your job. Not your friends or family. Nothing. Addiction is a necessity, a raw desperation, that takes precedence over all else.

It hurts. It burns in your chest, sears through your veins, and gnaws into your stomach like nothing but a sickness can. Not like the flu and not like pneumonia, you don't hold onto hope that it'll get better, that you just need to wait it out. You don't even think about that. You can't. Waiting it out isn't an option, just ask it.

That is, of course, exceedingly inconvenient. And shameful, embarrassing, and in many cases, outright disgusting. Bosses don't care if you're an addict when they fire you for misconduct. Friends get tired of lending favors. Even families can only take so much. It infects all that it touches, and it touches _everything_ \- ruining relationships, shredding ambitions, draining bank accounts, filling prison cells. Addiction, in all its forms, leaves a trail of chaos in its wake.

Sometimes, its chemical. Drugs, withdrawal, rehab, relapse. Everyone knows about that merry-go-round. But you can become addicted to almost anything. Food, sex, theft, pain - even a person. It's all the same chemical reaction. The same dopamine rush. The same resounding _need_.

And sometimes, it's not just the life of the addict that's destroyed.

It's everyone else's.

* * *

**May, 2017**

Having half expecting to see his dorm occupied when he came back that evening, Tom was quite pleased to see his roommate had left early. Dropping his backpack beside his desk, he plopped himself onto the bed, pulling his phone from his pocket. It took him only two taps of his fingers to pull up Hermione's number.

_I'm coming home for the weekend._

While he knew what he expected from initiating the conversation - her to call and offer him a ride - he also knew that Hermione wasn't the type to always have her phone close by(or the type to pick up the phone at all, for that matter; on more than one occasion he'd seen her sit and watch the phone ring). Though he knew he could always call Frank, there's only so much small talk one can handle and Tom couldn't say he was in any mood to fake interest in the bloom cycles of lilies, or how to remove rust without damaging surrounding varnish.

Instead, he checked the train schedule for the rest of the night.

There was no backing out now - he'd already sent the text - and despite what they say about rich kids, he'd never much minded public transport.

The last train back to Great Hangleton left in just over fifty minutes, and from there it'd be easy to get a cab. If Hermione didn't text him back within twenty minutes, he decided he'd grab his backpack and walk.

He still felt inadvertently pleased with himself when his phone chimed after only three minutes of waiting.

**Are you sure that's a good idea?**

**Your father's out of town.**

_Until next Thursday. I'm aware._

After only a moment of consideration, he added,

_I want to see you._

If she didn't appreciate the boldness, it didn't matter; he was coming home either way.

**Do you need me to call Frank and ask him to come get you?**

_No_

_I'm taking the train_.

It was damn well obvious he'd not be taking the train, and he knew it, because her next message would undoubtedly say,

**Do you want me to come and get you instead?**

**It's almost dark.**

**I don't want you out there alone.**

_Okay._

_Are you at home?_

**Yes.**

_Are you alone?_

**I'll be there in a few hours.**

Not bothering to hide his smirk in the solitude of his room, he shoved his phone back in his pocket. Glancing to his discarded backpack, he decided there'd be no point in packing. He'd only be gone a few days - he did still have class, and even if he skipped Monday, he couldn't pretend it was a good idea to miss all through Thursday. And, either way, he still had clothes at home.

With a final check of the time, he decided to jump into the shower.

* * *

**June, 2014**

Tom had never considered being around his father to be a particularly enjoyable experience.

The man had always made it clear that he didn't want his son, that he saw his child as a burden, and that the only reason he even kept custody was because it'd tarnish the family reputation to have an abandoned heir(and, as he so often liked to say, "in this day and age, dirt never stays under the rug").

His disdain was further demonstrated by his strict policy of keeping Tom as far from home as possible, as much as could be managed. He went to boarding school. He went to summer camp. If he got expelled or kicked out, as had happened several times since he'd reached school-going age, his father would stay up making as many calls, paying as many fines, and calling in as many favors as he had to, making sure the son was gone and replaced within the week.

In the brief periods between being shuffled around, Tom stayed with his grandparents at home. During those weeks, he hardly saw his father(conveniently, business trips were nearly always scheduled during these times), let alone spoke to the man.

And of the few moments Tom would spend with him, they were decidedly unpleasant.

When the school year ended and he was picked up not by Frank Bryce, the caretaker of the Riddle family home, but by his father himself, Tom knew the drive home(if he could even assume they were, in fact, going home) would be worse than he'd become accustomed to. Fingers twitching restlessly against the interior of the car, he grit his teeth in determined ignorance.

Though his father broke the silence, he offered little explanation for the oddity of the situation. "You'll be staying home this summer."

Leaning back against the leather of the passenger seat, the son didn't even bother to look over. "And where will you be going?"

"Nowhere." At that, he was surprised enough to actually turn, giving the conversation his full attention. "I met someone," his father continued, "last year, while you were at school."

"Not surprising," Tom drawled, unamused even despite his wary curiosity, "You travel. When are you _not_ meeting people?"

As though his son had said nothing at all, the man continued, "I want her to marry me. I didn't exactly propose, per se, but I did broach the topic."

For once, Tom did not have any comeback or smart remark whatsoever.

While his typical reaction to anything that didn't affect him was boredom, there had to be a catch here. Something he wasn't seeing yet. Surely his father hadn't come all this way just to share the joyous news. It wasn't unusual for Riddle Senior to date, but it was by all means unusual for any relationship he had to last longer than a few months - ironically, the longest relationship he'd been in had been with Merope, Tom's mother, which'd been exclusively out of social obligation, hardly qualified as a relationship at all, and had ended very …abruptly, for lack of a better word.

"She's…" the man paused, thinking over his words before deciding on, " _concerned_ that I don't spend enough time with you. Of course, I told her that family is very important to me, that's why we keep my parents at home. But no, she was concerned about _you_."

There was no mistaking the bitterness in his tone.

"She works for that nonprofit we collaborated with a few years ago - the one for institutionalized children. She's worrying that a 'lack of stability and strong family support system' might be causing you to act out."

Letting out a tired sigh, he continued, "'course, if she knew you, she'd know what a crock of shite that is. But you know, can't argue with women."

"Of course not," Tom replied coolly, "all you can do is sign a DNR while they're in childbirth."

That remark earned him a stern look, but nothing more. "You're going to stay home this summer. You're going to play nice with Hermione. You are not going to try and upset her in any way. You are _not_ going to mention even a single word about your mother."

Catching that her name was Hermione, he duly noted the information.

"At the end of the summer, you're going to pack up and go back to Durmstrung. And tonight, you're coming to dinner with us so she can meet you. Wear something nice."

* * *

**May, 2017**

Seeing her car pull up, Tom wasted no time in hauling himself from the bench he'd waited at. Sliding into the passenger seat as quickly as he was able, he gave her no opportunity to change her mind.

She still drove _her_ car - the junky one she'd bought with the money she earned working retail in college. It was old, engine sputtering as she drove, and the fabric interior lining had been stained by years of wear. Still, it was clean, well loved, and always picked over any of the shiny new ones his father insisted on buying her.

There was probably a point to that. Something about individuality and integrity. Something that was complete and utter bullshite, but that she'd use to justify her insistent refusal of her husband's affection.

"How are you?" Carefully, he extended his hand to rest against her thigh. Even with the barrier of her jeans, he felt her twitch. Stiffen.

He ignored it.

Despite having half her face hidden behind a pair of oversized sunglasses, he could tell she looked like shite. Well, not like shite, but not like _the_ Mrs Riddle should. That's probably what the sunglasses were for, actually - it was late enough she hardly needed them. Judging by the look of her, she'd not been expecting to see anyone - her hair had been messily restrained, her skin(what he could see of it, anyways) was bare, and her usual business casual dress had been swapped for a baggy, ripped pair of jeans, scruffy boots, and an old, oversized t-shirt from a band he'd never heard of.

Still, it didn't slip his notice that the tennis bracelet he'd given her for her birthday the first year they'd met sat heavy on her wrist.

"Fine," she answered. Clipped. Rough. Though her head didn't turn, he thought he saw a bit of movement from the corner of her eye.

Maybe the sunglasses were multipurpose.

Inching his hand up her thigh, he stopped when she reached out, halting him.

He understood.

_Wait._

Retreating, his fingers found purchase in a particularly patchy spot in her jeans, wedging themselves through the torn fabric. Her skin was warm, soft against his fingertips.

Looking down for a second too long to be just taking notice, she sighed, but voiced no complaints.

* * *

**June, 2014**

Though he had approximately an hour between their arrival back home and when he was told to be ready for dinner reservations, Tom spent exactly none of it bothering to find an outfit his father would consider acceptable. Instead, he took the time to rummage through the man's social media to discover everything he could about this _Hermione_ character.

It didn't take long to find her. As usual, his father loved to brag and had been all too eager to post about his young, shiny, new toy.

Hermione Jean Granger.

A quick Google search told him that she worked with the Patronus Association, an organization dedicated to protecting the rights and ensuring the welfare of children under the guardianship of the crown. A few years back, his father's company had donated to them, made a big deal out of it, and without a doubt earned themselves some solid PR. Presumably, that's where they'd met.

Next, he checked the linked social media accounts found on his father's page. While her Facebook was set mostly private, her Instagram wasn't.

Just for the record, if you really want to get to know someone, social media isn't the place to start. Because, for all it's worth, it's a lie. It's scripted, edited, managed. Fake.

That being said, it is an informative lie. It tells you not what people have and not who they are, but what they want.

When a man posts a video of himself playing the guitar, it shows not that he has talent but that he seeks recognition. As a woman pins scenes of smiling couples holding hands, it shows not how her husband has been cheating on her with his secretary, but that she dreams of a blissful marriage. If an influencer sits on the floor, throws on a grey hooded sweatshirt, and cries in front of the camera, it shows not that they have remorse but that they want pity.

Hermione's social media was infinitely more interesting than his father's, if only for the reason that it was not at all what he'd been expecting. There were no pictures of white sand beaches, shopping bags, or fancy cars. The only pictures depicting a life a luxury were the ones she'd taken with his father, usually limited to candlelit dinners with glasses of wine; treated occasions, not the usual. Not only that - she didn't look particularly happy in those pictures. Smile stiff and posture rigid, she looked as though she'd been posed for the camera.

She probably had been.

The rest of her pictures showed activist work, book recommendations, and several pictures of an oversized beast of a cat. A few friends, if you scrolled back far enough.

It was clear as day that she was his father's type only in that she was young and pretty.

Tom Riddle Senior was a man known to flaunt his wealth, never having complained of the type of woman attracted to such peacocking. That said, all these relationships had a predetermined end: as soon as the woman in question began seeking commitment. He'd explained very briefly the summer his son had turned fourteen that the women he typically dated were just that - dates. Fun to play with and a good waste of pocket change, but never to be trusted with company finances.

It went without saying that the man had up to this point been content with the life of a bachelor.

Just as Tom was scrolling even further, his phone chimed with a text from his father's number, pointedly left unsaved in his contacts.

**She's here. We're leaving in five minutes.**

Throwing off the jumper he had on, he tied his shoes and left the room in a white t-shirt and a pair of black jeans.

* * *

As he descended the stairs, he heard a female voice he could only assume belonged to the woman he'd spent the past hour researching. If he slowed and quieted his steps a bit, it was merely out of curiosity.

"You look so tense," she hushed, tone gentle, soothing. Tom nearly rolled his eyes at the sound of it. "You can relax. It's just dinner with your son. You haven't seen him in a _year_ , it'll be good to catch up."

From where he stood on the stairs, still concealed by the walls, he heard his father scoff. "I'd rather it just be dinner with _you_. I told you - this is only going to confuse him. He and I have an arrangement. He's closer to his grandparents and we both like it better that way."

Technically speaking, it wasn't a lie(aside from the comment about this pisspoor attempt at connection 'confusing' him - he had a very clear understanding of what this was, thank you very much). He and his father did have an unspoken arrangement to interact as little as possible, and he was closer to his grandparents if only for the reason that he'd felt no passive and yet ever present feeling of loathing towards them.

"Then you'll have the whole summer to set him straight, won't you?"

A sigh was quickly followed by, "I couldn't set that kid straight if I had an entire lifetime. You don't know him."

Voice lifting just slightly, she optimistically replied, "and by the sound of it, I'd say you don't either."

Having heard enough, Tom finished his descent into the dining room only to be immediately greeted by the sight of his father, hands placed gently on his girlfriend's waist. She'd wrapped hers over his shoulders, fingers threading affectionately through his hair.

_How cute._

Though sneering internally, he kept his thoughts to himself as the couple became aware of his presence.

Tom Senior's scowl was made all the more prominence next to his girlfriend's beaming smile. Whereas she removed her hands from his person, he tightened his grip.

"I thought I told you we were going out tonight," he said, clearly displeased by his son's attire. "This isn't the kind of place you wear a t-shirt to, Tom. We discussed this."

It'd hardly qualified as a discussion.

Giving a careless shrug, Tom shoved his hands into his pockets. "I can always stay here, if you'd like."

Predictably, the arm candy objected. "No, no, it's quite alright. We can always go to the Three Broomsticks - they're family friendly. And much more laid back." Ignoring the displeasure of the man holding her, she stepped out of the possessive grip and closer to the son, extending a hand.

Tom stared at it for a moment before the irritable sound of his father's clearing throat prompted him to take it.

"I've heard so much about you," she exclaimed, shaking her grip with unnerving enthusiasm. "Your father has told me so much-"

He seriously doubted that.

"- Your grandparents too, over the last year and I've been so anxious - excited, anxious, not nervous - to finally put the face to the name. I'm-"

"Hermione," he cut her off, pulling his hand away even as she continued attempting to yank at it. As discreetly as possible, he wiped it off against his trouser leg. "So I've been told."

"We're not going to the Three Broomsticks," his father interjected, stepping forward. "I made reservations, and we're keeping them. Tom, throw on a jacket and let's go. There should be a few extras in the coat closet."

Waving dismissively to his son, Riddle Senior grabbed the car keys from the dining room table and pulled his date back to him. Though they both knew he wanted Tom to throw on a blazer, there was no argument made when a leather jacket was pulled out instead.

Despite the man's obvious impatience, Hermione made sure to wait for Tom before following out the door.

* * *

**May, 2017**

As soon as she set her keys down on the kitchen counter, he struck.

Reaching for her with no hesitation, he slammed her into the countertop. As her hip made contact with the marble, she let out something between a yelp and a moan. Whatever it was, it only encouraged him. Hiking his hands under her thighs, he roughly deposited her onto the stone.

Any further noises she made were smothered as their lips met.

There were no manners and no precision in the way he kissed her - or, for that matter, in the way she kissed back. It was desperate. Needy. Neither of those were adjectives he liked to apply to himself, but he couldn't deny that's how it felt, and it soothed his ego to feel her reacting with equal vigor.

With a soft gasp, she pulled back, hands anchored on his shoulders. His face turned, pressing into the crook of her neck. Inhaling, he allowed himself the luxury of taking his time.

"Wait," she breathed, "we're not home alone."

Grinning against her throat, he replied, "you'll just have to be quiet then, won't you?"

She wouldn't be. He'd make sure of it.

His hands moved to the hem of her shirt, sliding under. "Or not. Truthfully, Thomas is half deaf and Mary has grown quite forgetful in her age. You could probably moan my name and they'd be none the wiser. Even if they suspect, they'd do nothing but forget by the time he gets home."

Fingers having long since memorized the feel of her skin, he followed the count of her ribs, reveling in her responsive shivers.

In his head, the scene was perfect - her, back arched and head thrown back, moaning _his_ name. From the experiences he had with her in the past, he knew that she was more the type to curse than to moan - most of the time she played her part proper, but here, for him, her mouth was utterly foul - but he figured a few well placed fingers, and maybe a tongue, might be enough to coax it out of her.

She didn't like to say it. Other times, other places, she would. But not here. He knew why, but that's exactly why he needed to hear it in the first place. He needed her to take that hand-me-down name and steal it away, make it new, make it his.

"Shut up," she growled, nails clawing against his shoulders. "Don't make me change my mind."

Swiftly, he reached down again to pull the shirt clean off. With her now bare, exposed except for her thin, unlined bra, he ran one hand up the center of her torso, over her chest, and then up the column of her throat until he reached her jaw. Gripping it firmly, he angled it towards him and pressed his lips against hers once more.

For the moment, he was content to allow himself to be fully immersed in the moment. Releasing her jaw, he let his hand fall back to her throat. This time, his grip tensed not out of desperation and not as a threat, but just because he liked the feel of her pulse under his fingertips. It was steady. Grounding.

He let his other hand wander.

Part of being an addict is knowing that you're ruining everything, and yet being unable to stop.

You know your grandmother needs her pain pills, and you think about it as you swipe them anyways. You know your friend is really crunched for cash, but you beg them to lend to you regardless of the fact. 'Their parents always help them out,' you say. 'They'll be fine.' You don't know if they will be, but if they aren't, well that's not your fault is it? It is, and deep down you know that, but you ignore it, smothering it down and snuffing it out because you don't have a choice.

Hand finding the fly of her jeans, he made quick work of unbuttoning them, pulling the zipper, and then eagerly dipping his fingers inside. As the pads of his fingers met slippery flesh, he grinned against her lips.

"You're wet."

* * *

**June, 2014**

Tom couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten dinner with his father. Though Thomas and Mary liked to take him out during his summers home, their son preferred to be absent for those occasions.

Once, when he was eleven, Riddle Senior had taken him along to some business conference - apparently little boys wearing fancy suits makes for a good photo, which of course makes for good PR - and afterwards, on the way home, they'd gone to a sit down restaurant. A little diner, it was hardly anything fancy, but it wasn't takeout or a fast food drive thru.

His father had ordered the hostess to assign them separate booths, but regardless.

At the time, he'd taken the opportunity to get everything that even remotely caught his attention on the menu. A full appetizer platter, a milkshake in each flavor, two soft drinks, and three entrées(all with different sides). He ate about three bites of each.

Looking over the menu now, in this posh London restaurant, he thought the diner had had a preferable selection.

Just because food is expensive, photographed in low light, and labeled gourmet, doesn't mean it's good. There's no reason a menu needs eight different cuts of beef that all taste the same, or a dozen salads that differ only in their selection of random fruit and side dressing. And the wine selection(not that he was old enough to order any, but he still looked) was even worse - half of those weren't even in English.

Hermione seemed equally disinterested with the menu, allowing her date to order for her. "Whatever you think I'd like," she said, "I trust your judgement."

It didn't take even a minute after the orders had been taken for things to get uncomfortable.

Following a delicate sip of her champagne, she leaned forward to focus all her attention on the unwilling third wheel. "You just finished year twelve, right?"

Tom nodded. She probably thought she was being considerate, polite, by forcibly including him. He disagreed.

"Have you thought about college at all? Any plans for after you finish school?"

Though he opened his mouth to answer, his father beat him to it.

"We've been in contact with a few American schools. It'd be best to get him in as a business major."

Turning, she nodded enthusiastically at the interruption, no doubt an attempt to prevent wounding any egos, before focusing back on Tom. "Is that what you're interested in? Business?"

His eyes narrowed. "If I need to be."

After a few perplexed blinks, she went back to her drink.

The rest of dinner continued in a similar manner, Hermione assaulting him with pointless questions while his father irritability fought for her attention. It was unnecessary, _annoying_ , but it was annoying his father too, so for the time being Tom decided to hold onto that silver lining.

"That's fascinating," he said, leaning forward.

It wasn't. At all. Truthfully, he hadn't even been listening. Watching his ice cubes melt was more riveting than whatever it was she was going on about - history, he thought. Something about the evolution of child welfare laws, maybe. Regardless, it was boring.

Looking up, he gave her a soft smirk. "Can I ask you something?" he asked, tone just barely erring on the side of naughty, like it was a secret just between the two of them - women eat that shite up. "Something a bit personal."

Despite his father's clear agitation, she nodded brightly.

"Has my father already told you that he wants to marry you?"

Though he already knew the answer, his father _had_ told him earlier, he asked anyways. Just to stir the pot a little, just to see what would happen.

Instantly, she deflated, squirming in her seat with discomfort.

Riddle Senior cleared his throat, interjecting with, "You don't have to answer that. He's just being -"

"No, no, it's alright," she countered, gently removing the hand that'd been placed protectively on her shoulder. Turning back to the son, her expression was suddenly less that of an excitable schoolgirl and more of a solemn professional. "Yes, we've discussed it."

Arching a brow, he was admittedly somewhat surprised by her shifting demeanor. Still, he didn't relent. "So, you've turned him down, then? And yet you're still here?"

" _Tom!_ "

The angry scolding of his father was unable to penetrate the conversation.

Hermione leaned forward, shoulders squared with forced confidence. Assertive - neither provocative nor meek, and no doubt something she'd had to learn. "As I said, we've discussed it. Marriage isn't a decision to be made lightly, and we're working to get to a point where we're both confident the time is right."

Nodding sympathetically, he replied, "That's good to hear. I'm glad to know you're being so responsible about it. Truthfully, I was quite worried, when he told me."

Visibly, she softened. "That's understandable. I know it can be quite overwhelming, for all of us, and that's part of why we're taking it slow."

Shaking his head, he countered, "No, it's not that. It wouldn't make too much of a difference to me either way, you see, I'm hardly around," frowning, tight lipped, he continued, "It's just that, up to this point, I've always been under the impression that child brides are illegal in England."

With the shock dawning on her face, he smiled innocently. "Now, I'd hardly notice if dad took an _extended vacation_ , but it'd put an awful ugly stain on the company I plan to inherit. Surely, you understand."

_That_ seemed to be the tipping point.

Tom Riddle Senior was a man too well bred to raise his voice in public. If the Riddle family valued one thing, it was money. Reputation, however, was a close second. They liked to be known for their manners, their hospitality, their graciousness - their _class._

That's part of why he was so insistent that the son be kept away.

Regardless, there are standards for being classy - rules. You can yell at your son all you like behind closed doors. You may berate him for his existence, remind him he is the unwanted, accidental offspring of a drug addicted whore, but only if you're sure no one else is around to hear.

In a crowded restaurant, the most you can do is abruptly rise from your seat, hissing, "We're leaving. _Now._ "

Hermione's response surprised the both of them.

"No."

Reaching out with misplaced authority, she firmly guided him back into his seat. Though not looking comfortable by any means, he seemed to trust the grounding hand placed over his shoulder.

Head tilting just slightly, Tom watched the scene with a newfound fascination.

No one likes to say it, because no one wants to imply Freud was right(he wasn't), but one thing is undeniably true: for the average man, the perfect partner is a woman who will love and care for him unconditionally like his mother, while still fucking him as he likes. They're weak, desiring the illusion of control, "feeling like a man," while simultaneously needing someone else to be the backbone.

With sudden clarity, he understood exactly what it was about this woman that appealed to his father.

"Now, let's all just calm down," she said, more to her date than his son, "and see this for what it is: an opportunity to communicate. Maturely." With the last word, her gaze fixed pointedy on the latter.

Not bothering to hold back the eyeroll, he still caught the way her grip tightened against his father's shoulder.

"Tom, do you have something you'd like to say?"

Narrowing his eyes, he folded his arms across his chest. "No. I think I just about covered it."

"Are you sure about that?" Her gaze was firm. Challenging.

"Yes."

"Then can I say something?"

He scoffed. "By the looks of it, I'd say I couldn't stop you if I tried."

Ignoring the snark, she continued, "I understand that your relationship with you father hasn't been the best-"

Understatement of the century.

"And I understand if having a new person around feels intrusive or overwhelming-"

It was neither. Really, he just enjoyed antagonizing his sperm donor.

"But this is not the way to go about it."

It seemed to be working just fine to him.

"For the time being, you can take some comfort in knowing that nothing is set in stone except that we're going to take the summer to work on this. Once you get to know each other, I'm sure you two'll find you have more in common than you realize."

Doubtful, but he didn't object. Glancing blankly between the couple across from him, he nodded slowly, curious to see where this would lead. His father seemed positively smug by that, almost making him reconsider the preformative compliance, but he didn't. Instead, he reached out for his water glass just for the sake of having something to do.

"And, just for the record, I'm twenty-five. I'm not a teenager. I'm not even a college student. Please don't imply such hurtful things about your father."

Not old enough to be his mother, but just young enough to be his sister. Gross.

"Okay," he conceded, insincere as ever.

Taking a sip of his water, he watched the couple in front of him like a scientist watches a rat run through a maze.

* * *

**May, 2017**

Lowering his hands to the backs of her thighs, he lifted her in one motion, carrying and promptly depositing her on the nearby table.

"You said we need to be quiet," she breathed, lifting her hips to allow him to relieve her of the constricting clothes.

"I said _you_ need to be quiet," he answered, pulling her hips to the edge of the table, quickly pressing her shoulders back and spreading her like an offering. When she tried to sit up, he pushed her back down. "Stay."

Defiant, she shoved his hand off her and sat up again.

Though he debated whether to respond by audibly banging against the table, or by forcibly holding her down - or both, maybe, that might work too - he changed his mind as she reached back behind her, unclipping and then discarding the bra.

This time, she relented when he pressed firmly on her sternum, settling back against the wood.

"Remember," he mocked, dropping to his knees and pressing his lips to the bone of her hip, "you have to be quiet."

Wasting no time, he eagerly began.

When his tongue immediately sought her clit, she gasped, jerking at the contact. Never one to do things by half, he slammed his forearm down against her hips, holding them in place. It was almost surprising how responsive he was; part of him wondered if his father even _knew_ where she needed to be touched, but he quickly silenced the thought. In this moment, she was _his_ , not his father's, not anyone else's.

As if to demonstrate, his hand slid up her thigh, then higher. Pushing two fingers inside, he flexed against her walls even as his mouth continued its assault.

Gasping, her back arched. " _Fuck._ "

Thumb replacing his tongue, he pulled back, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of her thigh. "What happened to being quiet?"

Squirming, she bucked her hips into his hand as much as his hold would allow. "Please," she whined, " _fuck_ , _please_."

It wasn't his name, but he did so love it when she begged.

Lowering his mouth again, he relented with the knowledge that he was nowhere near done. One way or another, he'd coax it out of her.

Removing his hand, he shifted his hold to the edge of her thigh, using his thumb to part her. With her most sensitive spot so thoroughly exposed, he was relentless, circling firmly with his tongue, sucking greedily with his lips.

Accidentally nipping when she moved too much for his liking.

The resounding yelp went ignored as he continued his task, holding her even more firmly as she began to shake.

She was close. That much was obvious. If it weren't for the shaking, twitching, or the way she was literally dripping down onto the table below, the way her cursing became all the more repetitive, a constant stream of _fuck, fuck, fuck_ , and whimpered _please_ 's was proof enough.

But she wasn't allowed to be done. Not yet.

Though he didn't pull away entirely, he slowed, easing the pressure just enough to drive her mad.

She knew what she needed to do. He could be patient if he had to be.

Reaching down, her hand sought out his own before clasping it firmly, desperate. As much as she could, she propped up to look at him, eyes shining, pleading. Twisting his wrist to thread his fingers through her own, his thumb rubbed reassuringly over her skin.

" _Tom, please._ "

He couldn't deny her after that.

Even as her back arched, gasps rendering any attempts to form further words incoherent, even as she shook so violently the table moved with her, even as the tennis bracelet on her wrist scratched against the wood, he didn't once let go of her hand.

Not even when her wedding ring began to dig into his skin so hard it hurt.

* * *

**June, 2014**

Before it'd even started, Tom knew that dinner would be long, boring, and all around unpleasant, but following that little spark of excitement, it really began to slow.

Hermione continued the conversation as though nothing had happened, resuming her obnoxious interrogation and wordy rambling. His father, not coincidentally, looked all too pleased by it, pulling her chair closer, resting his hand over her knee, calling the waiter, repeatedly, to refill her champagne if she so much as took a sip from it.

And of course, looking back to his son again and again with that stupid, smug, shiteating grin all over his face.

It was intolerable.

Clearing his throat, Tom interjected, "if you'll excuse me, I need to use the restroom."

Unsuspecting, and perhaps pleased by how surprisingly respectful he was being, they both nodded.

Following the route he'd noticed the waiters taking, he discreetly managed to slip out a backdoor near the kitchen and onto the streets of London. Pulling out his phone, he checked first the battery percentage, and then the time. By his estimation, he'd have approximately fifteen minutes before they began wondering where he went - twenty, if he were being generous - and he intended to take full advantage.

Shoving his phone back into his pocket, he set off.

It wasn't like he was running away. Eventually, they'd either find him, call the police, or he'd call Frank to come pick him up. He just didn't want to be there anymore.

All cities have "good" neighborhoods and "bad" neighborhoods, and even in big cities, the difference between the two is usually only a few minutes walk.

Though the streets that stayed closer to the main city roads were safer, Tom was confident with the pocket knife he had on him and opted to turn a few more dimly lit corners, ending up in a darker, more run down part of town. The windows weren't boarded up, and there weren't any blood stains on the cement, but Knockturn Alley had never been known for its pleasant atmosphere - It was known primarily for its perverse sex shops, sleazy liquor stores, and filthy bars, though it had a few antique shops too.

Finding a seat on the steps leading into Borgin and Burkes, one of the aforementioned antique shops, Tom checked his phone again.

Three texts. Two from the dismally recognizable unsaved number, and one from Frank.

**Where are you?**

And then, sent ten minutes later,

**This is the last straw. Consider every privilege you've ever had gone.**

The one from Frank, Tom didn't even bother opening. He knew what it'd say - something like,

**Your father's real worried about you, kid. Can you tell me where you are? I can come get you. Don't do anything stupid.**

Relocking his phone, he put it away and pulled out a half empty pack of cigarettes. Though the lighter he had on him was nearly dead - and the wind certainly didn't help - he managed to get it lit with a few tries and only minimal cursing.

With a steady inhale, he let the burning of the smoke in his lungs calm him before releasing it.

Inhale, exhale. Rinse, repeat.

He almost didn't notice the clicking of heels nearby.

"Those'll kill you, you know."

Not bothering to look up - he didn't need to to recognize the voice that'd been tormenting him all evening - he rolled his eyes and took another drag. "Because no one's ever told me that before."

Hearing her step closer, he turned.

Either from the wind or the humidity, her curls had begun to frizz out of their restraints. Whereas in the beginning of the evening, they'd been neatly pinned, they now fell insistently into her face even as she uselessly pushed them back. "Your father's driving around," she said, "looking for you. He's worried."

Angry, not worried, but they both knew that, so he didn't bother correcting her on the semantics.

"And he let you walk out here to find me? By yourself, at night, wearing that?"

Nodding towards her dress, he gave her a skeptical look. The hem hit at mid thigh, far from cheeky, but the red fabric clung to her frame in a way that was undeniably appealing. Not too tight, proper without being prudish, but it left just enough to the imagination.

Compared to the other women his father had broughten home, she certainly had more class. Though, he supposed she'd have to, if marriage was actually being considered.

Still not the kind of thing that's safe for a woman whose had champagne to be wearing out alone, and _certainly_ not in Knockturn Alley.

"He doesn't own me," she answered, raising her chin.

_Oh, but he wants to._

Putting out his cigarette, Tom shook his head with a half hidden smirk. "Alright."

Frowning, she crossed her arms over her chest. "I'm not joking, and I'm not stupid," she persisted, "I respect his opinion, but ultimately my will is my own. We'd not have gotten this far if he didn't know that."

Tilting his head, he loftily replied, "I'm not arguing."

Rather than wait for a reply, he changed the topic. "How'd you know where to find me?"

Shrugging, she answered, "Intuition." At his look of skepticism, she amended, "I guessed you went out the back, because I didn't see you leave - yes, I was looking. Then, I guessed that you probably didn't want to be found right away, meaning it'd be illogical to take the better lit roads, because you'd know we were looking, and we'd be able to spot you right away. And when I got here, well, then I called Frank and asked him to check the location on your phone."

Both annoyed with himself for forgetting to turn that off, and impressed with her for utilizing it, he hummed in acknowledgment. "And my father isn't here yet because…?"

Averting her gaze, her cheeks began to flush. "I _may_ have implied that your father was with me … _but_ _only_ because the tension is clearly running high right now, and I don't want either of you to say anything you can't take back."

It was a few years too late for that.

Still.

Following her guilty confession, she abruptly asked, "Is it alright if I join you?"

Seeing no reason besides misplaced spite to keep her standing there, he scooted over to the other end of the step. "You're not gonna call him?"

"In a few minutes. Not yet."

"Why?"

"Because I want to make sure you're alright, first." She looked sincere. Sympathetic.

He scoffed. "I'm fine."

"Are you, though?" Resting her hand in her chin, she said, "I know you've been on your own a lot. Your whole life, practically."

"And?"

"And you shouldn't have to be. I…" she paused, shaking her head before continuing with, "I've heard a lot about you. I know that's not the same as knowing you, but it's something. I know you've gotten into a lot of trouble, but you're smart. Maybe too smart for your own good. And I don't think you're broken, but everyone can always do better."

Though he nearly pointed out the irony in her saying that, for the time being he held his tongue.

"And, ultimately, I just want to help you."

The cliche of it all was gritting, almost painful. Reflexively, he snapped, "I don't want your help."

"I know. But I'm offering it anyways."

Cut off by the buzzing of her phone, she pulled it up.

Of course, it was 'Tom.'

Luckily, it was only a text.

"I told him where we are," she said, locking and flipping it over before turning back to him, "he'll be here in a few minutes."

"Splendid."

For a moment, it was quiet, the only sound between them the rustling of the city, until she hesitantly spoke up. "Can I give you my number? Just in case you need it?"

Tossing the cigarette butt vaguely in the direction of the street, he answered, "You can give me whatever you want, but that doesn't mean I'll take it. And I'm not handing you my phone. So if you've got a pen, and you're fine having your phone number dropped onto this very public and rather seedy street, then go ahead."

He wasn't sure what he expected. A frown, maybe. Or for her to visibly deflate, slacken like she had at dinner. Maybe a lecture she didn't have the authority to give.

What he hadn't expected was a sly smile. "Alright."

Rummaging through her purse, she pulled out a pen. He'd thought she'd keep digging, grab a receipt or a gum wrapper or something, and then actually write her number in some gutsy, idiotic attempt to prove a point. But no, then, she-

She reached over into his lap, grabbed his cigarette pack, and wrote her number on the inside of the top.

"Feel free to drop it," she said, grinning like a fox even as she leaned back into the steps.

* * *

Only a minute later, his father pulled up. The man didn't even bother to get out, honking the horn of the car like a child slamming a door.

Hermione got up first, prompting the son into the car before climbing into the front seat. The ride home was spent in palpable silence. No radio. No small talk. And, strangely enough, no yelling.

Just the sound of the engine and the rustling of fabric against leather as Riddle Senior reached over for his date, gripping her knee.

Tom watched them for a moment too long before turning to the window.

Kleptomania is a mental illness defined by recurrent, irresistible urges to steal without the motive of need or personal gain, and is most often accompanied by an overwhelming sense of guilt.

Despite what many have said, Tom was not a kleptomaniac. He didn't steal because he had to, or out of any compulsion, and he certainly didn't feel guilty about it. He stole because he wanted to. Because he liked it. Because he wanted to spite his victims. Whereas kleptomaniacs often discarded their stolen property once the thrill of the deed wore off, Tom held onto his trophies. Cherished them, even. Loved them as much as he'd ever loved anything. He kept every single one, even the broken, the useless, the worthless, just for the knowledge that he had them, and that his victims did not.

Back home, in the privacy of his room, he saved Hermione's number.

* * *

**May, 2017**

When the storm had calmed, he patiently ran his unoccupied fingers over her stomach, waiting for the rise and fall of her chest to even. With a final squeeze to her hand, he let go before getting up to retrieve her discarded clothes.

As he began to dress her, she pulled back. "But, you didn't-"

Shaking his head, he answered, "Later. Not here."

She frowned, seemingly displeased by his decision that _she_ needed to come undone in the middle of the kitchen table, where anyone could hear, where anyone could walk in and _see,_ but that he wanted to wait for the privacy of a bedroom.

It went without saying that she was missing the point entirely.

Thankfully, she didn't argue further as he returned to pushing her ankles through the tops of her bottoms, them guiding them up her legs. Lifting her hips, she allowed him to pull her knickers and jeans up without comment. Not bothering with the bra, he pushed the shirt over her head again before smoothing down her hair.

It didn't do much. As usual, her chaotic frizz was beyond being controlled, but it was the gesture that mattered.

Looking up, she wet her trembling lips. "What am I going to do?"

Placing his hand back under her jaw, he was less forceful this time as he held it in place, pressing his lips reassuringly to the crown of her head.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

He'd take care of everything.

And first, that meant he needed his father out of the way.

Because something can't be yours if it's still someone else's.


	2. That's Interesting

**June, 2014**

There was a suspicious lack of consequence in the following days.

After they'd gotten home, Tom watched from the dining room window as the lovely couple bid their goodbyes, retreating to his room before his father got inside. Though he fully expected the man to barge in at any moment, screaming until his face turned blue and his voice ran hoarse, it never happened. Not that night, and not the next morning. When the following evening came, he settled with an understanding that if something were going to happen, it'd have happened by now.

This was, no doubt, something of Hermione's doing.

The first time he texted her, it was three days following their initial, moderately unpleasant introduction. Having smoked the last cigarette, he took the opportunity to toss the empty pack out - and to send her a picture of it laying out on the street.

_Hope it was worth it._

**Don't buy any more and it will be.**

**Please don't leave that on the ground.**

_Too late._

* * *

**May, 2017**

The best part about being home is having full, unhindered access to all of your stuff.

It's not feasible to bring your entire wardrobe with you to college when you know damn well you're going to rotate through the same five outfits, chosen for comfort and practicality alone. As much as you love your desktop computer, you leave it behind in favor of the more mobile laptop. The stamps you've collected, those old birthday cards - those get left behind too.

For Tom, it was a bit different in that he wasn't the type to collect stamps, his birthday cards were discarded as soon as he could confirm they didn't have money tucked inside, and his concern for his wardrobe was less about fashion than it was about the shoebox he kept in the bottom drawer, but the sentiment was still there.

A thimble. A yo-yo. A deck of cards - half of which were missing, and the other half of which had been torn through wear. A sterling silver watch, personally engraved for one Dennis Bishop. An expired bottle of painkillers, prescribed after Mrs Cole had had her knee surgery. All of these lived amongst Tom Riddle's box of stolen treasures.

None of these things were particularly unique, valuable, or even all that useful, but they were special. Irreplaceable if only because he could never get the same thrill through handing money to a cashier.

Sometimes, you love something not for what it is, but for what it means.

Your favorite shirt is old, stained, and patchy from years of wear, but it's still your favorite because you remember getting it at a soccer game with your best friend. That piece of paper you hang in your office is, in and of itself, near worthless, but the idea of throwing away the diploma you've earned likely sparks unimaginable horror.

Similarly, sometimes theft isn't about need or convenience. Owning that diamond necklace is hardly an accomplishment if you merely picked it up at a department store, not compared to the satisfaction of having smuggled it right out from under the security guard's nose.

And maybe you do love what it is - maybe that shirt really _is_ your favorite shade of blue, maybe that diploma really is the perfect finishing touch to your office decor, maybe that necklace really does shine exquisitely in the light - but that's not what makes it special.

The most special of all the things Tom had stolen couldn't fit inside that box, crudely shoved away in a dresser drawer.

Most of the time, it was inconvenient that he and Hermione had so drastically differing sleep cycles. It was annoying when she tried to wake him up for brunch a mere forty-five minutes after he'd fallen asleep. It was frustrating when he was trying to have a conversation with her, only to receive nothing but vague, nodded answers and yawns in response, despite it barely having passed midnight.

But, he decided as he looked over the sleeping form tangled beneath his bedsheets, it wasn't entirely a loss.

Running his fingers down her spine, he reveled in each little shiver. Tracing the small cluster of moles scattered across her shoulder blades, he accepted decisively that this was his favorite way to have her.

He liked having her all the time. It was amusing when she vehemently argued with him, gesticulating wildly. It was cute when she blushed and sputtered, because she - still, after everything they'd done - couldn't believe he was flirting with her. It was almost endearing when she insisted on hugging him goodbye as she dropped him off at school.

But here, this was his favorite because it was exactly how he shouldn't have her.

It was wrong. It was perverse.

His hand drifted down to her waist, following the curve before settling against her hip.

It was, by all accounts, a moment that should have been reserved exclusively for the man who'd sworn to devote himself to her.

"I'm trying to sleep," she grumbled, voice rough, "Go away."

"You're in my bed, love," he laughed, tracing little patterns into her skin even as she irritably squirmed, "and I'm not stopping you. If you want to sleep," leaning over, he pressed his lips to her shoulder, "then go to sleep."

Just as she tiredly hummed an affirmative, he opened his mouth and captured the flesh between his teeth. As he bit down, her back arched into him, hummed affirmation stopping short on a gasp and body trembling against him.

That seemed to wake her up - even if only a bit.

Flipping over, she huffed, looking entirely unamused. "I'm serious. I'm tired. Either let me go to sleep or I'm leaving."

'Leaving' in this instance meant walking the short distance down the hall, to her own bedroom, where he could just as easily follow and continue to annoy her. Still - he didn't like when she slept in his father's bed, even if it was easy to infiltrate.

"No," he objected, pulling the blankets back up over her chest, "Stay." After a moment, he tauntingly added, "I'll be good."

Rolling her eyes, she dryly replied, "Innocence doesn't suit you."

"No? What would you prefer?"

Pushing him flat on his back, she wrapped her arms around his torso. "Unconsciousness."

After she fell back asleep, he'd carefully maneuver himself out as to not wake her. She knew this, and had never once complained. Still, for the time being, he rolled over on his side, allowing her to press against his back as she tightened her grip over his midsection.

He wouldn't stay long - just until she fell asleep. He also wouldn't deny that it was comfortable, though.

* * *

**June, 2014**

Dinner in the Riddle family home had morphed into an evening long marathon of The Hermione Show, playing out much like the most boring mandatory lecture of your life.

For Thomas and Mary Riddle, this was quite alright because they loved the show, and for their son, it was even better because he loved hosting it.

" _Did you know she graduated top of her class?"_

" _Brainy and beautiful - well that's just lovely. And what did you say her degree was in, again?"_

Social work. Over the course of a single evening, her degree in social work had been name dropped half a dozen times. As had her parents being working class dentists - (" _It's good for a girl to know the value of an honest day's work! No gold digging, that's for sure."_ ). And her time spent volunteering in Bulgaria(" _Well bred and well cultured!"_ ). And did you know she's friends with that Junior Detective that was in the paper a few months back? Probably not, because no one reads the paper anymore. Either way, you do now.

If The Hermione Show featured a trivia hour, Tom was certain he'd be able to win enough money to move out and free himself from this unrelenting torture. As it were now, the most he could do was finish his dinner as quickly as possible before making a hasty retreat. Unfortunately, food can only be eaten so fast before it starts to become increasingly impolite, and manners were non-negotiable in the Riddle household.

It was pure luck that he should actually hear something useful.

"And how's Cecilia been?" Mary asked, looking up from where she picked at her potatoes.

Riddle Senior looked up, placing his silverware down. With a slight shake of his head, he stiffly answered, "Wouldn't know. I haven't asked."

Usually, when any mention of Cecilia was made, his response was a cocky grin, and a vague answer that allowed his parents to live blissfully unaware of the concept of friends with benefits. Something like, ' _Still the best secretary I've ever had.'_

Shortly clearing his throat, he added, "Hermione isn't too fond of her, not that she'll outright say it. Either way, I've been having Celia help out in a few other departments. Haven't seen her much lately. She's a friend, but it's hardly a loss."

Mary hummed, "That's sad, but awful sweet of you, dear."

It wasn't quite discernible what was 'sweet' - that he'd even mildly inconvenience himself for the current object of his affection, or that he didn't fire Cecilia on the spot the moment it so suited him.

From across the table, Tom made eye contact with his father for the first time since they'd sat down. Tilting his head curiously, his quiet intrigue was met with an immediate scowl.

"Oh, Tom! I almost forgot to ask!" Mary exclaimed, breaking the tension. They both looked up. "Oh, not you." She waved dismissively to her son. "Little Tommy." Reflexively, he scowled. "You met Hermione, didn't you, dear? And what did you think?"

Pushing the last bits of food to the opposite end of his plate, he vaguely answered, "I thought she was a very interesting young woman."

'Interesting' is the epitome of passive aggressive, and people like the Riddles know it well. If you want to say you hate something, but can't because that's impolite, you say it's interesting. "This perfume smells interesting" is a near direct translation to "This perfume smells like my great grandmother's powder room." "I thought the movie was interesting," translates to, "I thought it made no sense." "I just think it's interesting how you…" means you need to apologize immediately. Come home with flowers or not at all. If people like the Riddles actually think something is interesting, they won't call it that. Fascinating, riveting, thought-provoking - those are all approved. 'Interesting' means something else entirely.

"Well of course he doesn't like her," Riddle Senior huffed, forcing a tight lipped smile, "he didn't inherit my good taste."

The, " _Oh, shush_ ," of a scolding grandmother was immediately drowned out by Tom's own interjection.

"I never said I dislike her."

With that, he watched with dutiful fascination as his father's grip tightened on the stem of his wine glass, knuckles turning white.

"In fact," he continued, taking note of the sudden swallow in his father's throat, "I think she's lovely. Wouldn't you agree?"

The fear was unmistakable. Riddle Senior's eyes widened, blinking rapidly but never averting from their fixed gaze on his son. His breath caught in his throat on a sharp inhale. Grip tightening even further, he nearly tipped over his wine.

Again, the chatterbox grandmother broke the palpable tension, this time with an obnoxious squeal. " _Ooh_ , this is just delightful isn't it?" Nearly giggling, she nudged her husband. "Can you hear the wedding bells yet? _I think I can."_

The question was rhetorical, but Thomas answered with an unintelligible grunt regardless.

Adjusting his collar, Riddle Senior cleared his throat. "That's good then," he paused, stammering as he kept his eyes to his plate, "I'm sure she'll be happy to hear it."

Sitting up straight, Tom grabbed his dishes before quickly excusing himself.

* * *

The next time he saw Hermione was later in the week, early Saturday morning.

Tom wasn't an early riser by any stretch of the imagination; rather, he was more of an extraordinarily late night owl. Whereas she'd awoken just as the earliest bits of daylight had begun to shine through, he'd not yet gone to bed when he made his way out the back door.

She sat just outside, on the steps leading the porch to the lawn. At the sound of his footsteps, she turned.

"Don't tell me he kicked you out of bed," Tom said, taking a seat on the patio chair she'd neglected, "that's hardly chivalrous."

Heavy shadows hung under her eyes, though her hands held a steaming cup of coffee. Draped over her narrow frame was a shirt that was unmistakably not her own, the collar of which just barely concealed the bruise wedged between her neck and her collarbone.

Still sounding half asleep, she answered, "No, I just don't sleep well in other people's houses. I don't even think he noticed me leave."

"How considerate."

With a shake of her head, she automatically countered, "He's just a heavy sleeper, that's all. When he's conscious, he's much more attentive."

Scrunching his nose, Tom didn't bother to hide his distaste. "Didn't really need to know that, thanks."

Almost comically, her eyes widened. "That's not- I _really_ didn't," she stammered, face growing redder by the second, until finally, she squeaked, "can we change the subject, please?"

Unable to contain a grin, he pulled out a brand new pack of cigarettes. "Sure," he said, lifting one to his mouth, "whatever you'd like."

She frowned, huffing impatiently just as he flicked the lighter. "Can you please not do that?"

"Why not? It's my house." Still, his grip slackened as he waited for a response.

"What if I have asthma?"

Scoffing, he easily retorted, "You'd have said something last time. Or coughed - or wheezed, or something." With a questioning pause, he lowered the cigarette before pointedly asking, "Do you? Have asthma."

"Well, no, but-"

With a shrug, he lit up.

"Whatever I like? Well, what if I want to talk about the health hazards of cigarette smoking?" She brightened, taking a quick sip from her cup. "Or the environmental damage, for that matter."

"I'd literally rather talk about you and my father having sex, and that visual makes me want to retch."

She choked on her coffee.

Leaning back, he stretched out his legs and relaxed into the chair. As she coughed and wheezed, he airily inquired, "Are you sure you don't have asthma?"

If looks could kill, he'd be dead in a ditch.

Without another word, she turned her back.

How fascinating it was that her desire to worm her way into his life seemed so entirely dependent on whether or not she'd been sufficiently caffeinated.

"Are you mad at me now?" he half mocked.

Not turning back, she sniffed, "No. It's just early. I'm not much in the mood for talking right now."

_Liar._

At first, he was content not to argue. She was right - it _was_ early, and he didn't quite fancy being on the receiving end of a lecture at the moment. From where he sat, only a few steps behind her, he couldn't see exactly what it was she was doing when she took out her phone, but he distinctly recognized the image of herself and his father that she'd saved as her lock screen.

"Hermione?"

Though she hummed in acknowledgment, she didn't turn back. She didn't even stop scrolling.

"If I agree to put this cigarette out, will you talk to me?"

She stilled. "Not if you're just going to light up another one."

"I won't," he answered. When she still didn't turn, he added, "I promise. Is that good enough yet?"

Her thumb hovered uncertainly over the glass screen, but didn't move. "What if I want you to throw them all out?"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't push your luck. Here, look."

Waiting until she - finally - turned back, he took a final drag and pulled the cigarette from his mouth, demonstratively dropping it to the ground and crushing it with the heel of his sneaker.

"You'd better pick that up before we go in, you know," she said, eyes not leaving it. "Even if it doesn't start a fire, birds could pick it up, or an animal could eat it. They're toxic."

It was more from pride than anything else, but Tom had a strict personal policy of not allowing anyone to think they could call his bluff. "So," he started, "when you and my dad fuck, do you usually-"

Even without the coffee, she choked. " _Let's change the subject."_

"Yes. _Let's_."

She eyed him carefully, like a puzzle she didn't know the answer to or a stray animal she wasn't really sure she should be approaching. Leaning back, her eyes roamed over him with scrutiny. "What's your favorite subject in school?" she finally asked.

Unable to help himself, he laughed. "Is that really how you start conversations?"

Placing the now empty mug down, she folded her arms over her chest. "Well, not typically, no. But you seem to want to talk and have yet to provide a subject, so I improvised."

To Tom, thought sounded like a roundabout admission of having poor social skills.

"Good on you for taking the initiative, then." An extended pause hung between them, with her glaring and him stifling the remains of his laugh, before he broke it with, "Why don't you tell me what your favorite subject was?"

She looked skeptical. Suspicious. "But you didn't answer, so why should I?"

"Because I want to get to know you?"

Getting to know someone isn't something that happens through talk. It's not invasive enough.

You can take the time to ask a person their favorite color, their hopes, their fears, but you'll only ever scratch the surface, and that's assuming they don't lie to you. They probably will; honesty's a real buzzkill. It's easy to say, "My name is Tom, my favorite color is green, I hope to visit Paris someday, and I'm afraid of going to the dentist." Most people will find that relatable enough, and you'll probably receive a polite, yet insincere nod of response, the only problem being that it's about 70% shite and you both know it. You can try getting a little grittier than that, throw in some truth with your lies, and say, "I hope to one day be happy, but I'm afraid I've inherited my mother's bipolar disorder," and then, you'll get a bit more. An emphatic nod, this time. Maybe a hand placed on your forearm and some cheap, cliche quote that middle aged women think belongs on home decor. More, and yet still not enough.

But if you say, "My name is Tom, my favorite color is green, I hope my father gets hit by a car, but I'm afraid I won't be the one driving it," you will receive no such nod, no 'just take it one day at a time.' You tell them that and they politely dismiss themselves, run home, and look for any excuse they can to never speak to you again. Should you be unlucky enough, they might even call the police.

Saying talk is cheap doesn't even begin to cover it.

Quickly, she answered, "Math."

"Science," he retorted without pause.

She smiled - a little half grin that just barely quirked the corners of her lips. The former annoyance was gone, quickly replaced by that naive look of eagerness he'd seen the other night.

Behind them, the door open.

"Hermione?"

They both looked up, acknowledging the familiar voice with vastly different levels of enthusiasm. Whereas she brightened, perking up at the sound, Tom just barely held back an agitated groan.

Glancing cautiously between the two of them, Riddle Senior wet his lips before turning his attention back to Hermione. "Come inside, love. You don't want to catch a cold."

Blinking, she straightened where she sat. "It's summer. I hardly think I have to worry about that. Actually, there should still be coffee left in the pot - d'you want to grab it? You can come out here with us. It's comfortable, I promise. Warm."

He shook his head. "Why don't you come in, and I'll take it with breakfast. Coffee on an empty stomach can make you sick; you should probably eat something too."

Nodding, she grabbed the empty mug from the steps as she rose, padding across the porch in bare feet. She stopped just short of the door, just as his hand wrapped along her bicep. "Do you want to come in too, Tom? You haven't eaten yet, have you?"

Lifting the cigarette butt from under his shoe, Tom shook his head. "I'm good."

Despite her clear desire to object, probably to lecture him about the importance of a proper breakfast, she didn't, allowing his father to lead her inside and the door to shut behind them.

With her out of sight, he carelessly tossed the remainder of the cigarette into the grass.

* * *

**May, 2017**

The following morning, Tom awoke none too gently and far too early with a hard shove against his shoulder.

Drowsily blinking awake, he saw Hermione sitting in front of him in nothing but a towel. As he reached a hand towards her, she irritably slapped it away. " _What the hell is this_?" she all but shrieked, motioning to a purpling bruise on her shoulder.

"A hickey."

He rolled back over.

"I know _what it is!_ Would you mind telling me why on earth you thought it was even remotely a good idea to put it there?"

"I didn't hear any complaints at the time. You should have told me not to."

In his head, the sound of her jaw snapping shut amplified comically. She huffed, "I wasn't exactly thinking at the time, was I? I was a bit indisposed."

Even with his eyes shut, head still pressed into the pillow as he uselessly chased sleep, he smirked.

She shoved him again. "It's not funny!"

It wasn't. It might have been, had he been properly awake to appreciate it, though. "Relax. He's not going to be home until Thursday. I'm sure it'll be gone by then. It'll cover easily under your clothes when you go to work."

"That's not the point."

Accepting the inevitable, he sat up. Eyes following as the blanket fell away from his bare torso, she quickly averted her gaze with a swallow.

"You know," he said, reaching out to trace where the edge of the towel sat against her thigh, "I could fix it, if you asked nicely enough. I'm sure if I do it enough times, it'll look like any accidental bruise. Tell him something fell when you were putting away your books, that it landed on your shoulder. He won't notice."

"That's also not the point."

No, the point was that she wanted to be able to look in the mirror without seeing her guilt bloom across her skin. She wanted to be able to get in the shower, rinse the evidence from her thighs, and pretend that nothing had happened.

He didn't want that. He didn't want _her_ to want that.

Sighing, he relented, "We can ice it later. That'll help the bruising fade faster." He trailed his knuckles over the skin of her thigh. "I wish you wouldn't, though."

Frowning, she pulled her hair down, draping the curls pointedly over the bruise. Leaning forward, he pushed it back behind her shoulder. "Don't do that - I want to be able to see it."

She grabbed his wrist, irritably holding it away. "Why?"

"It's pretty." Pulling his wrist - and the hand attached to it - closer, he pressed a single kiss along her knuckles. "You're pretty, too."

For most women, you tell them they're pretty and they melt like butter. Having tied their self worth so tightly to their appearance, being called pretty is of the highest praises, and they'll let you get away with just about anything.

Most women aren't Hermione.

Snatching her hand back, she stood up from the bed and stalked out of the room.

A few minutes later, he heard the shower running.

Falling back into bed, he was back asleep before it shut off.

* * *

**June, 2014**

Hermione moved in at the end of June, about three weeks into Tom's first real summer vacation.

Still insistent that they were taking things slow, she refused to say that's what she was doing, but regardless. Having a drawer in his father's dresser wasn't enough anymore - she'd long since outgrown that, supposedly having spent nearly every weekend of the last three months in Little Hangleton, as well as some of the weeknights. It was more convenient, certainly. A shorter commute, a warmer bed. The fact that she'd waited this long was purely due to consideration for the son having just arrived back, though of course, she wouldn't say that either.

She wasn't bringing everything, because that would be too much like moving in - that would make it a little too real - but she did bring all the essentials, comparable to what one might pack for an extended vacation.

And Tom insisted on helping her transport it all.

Initially, and predictably, his father had objected, claiming that she shouldn't even have to bother with it, they could just buy duplicates. Then, after her vehement refusal, that they could just pay movers - or Frank. Still, she would hear none of it.

"It's only a few boxes," she'd said. "It's just for convenience sake."

It was mostly luck that Tom found himself alone in her bedroom while she and his father debated - politely argued - about the intricacies involved in packing and moving boxes(exactly how much should she take? She kept circling back to _gentle reminders_ that she was keeping the apartment, that she could always come back if she needed to. He kept reminding her she _didn't_ need to. What should be replaced, now that they were thinking about it? In her opinion, nothing; in his, literally everything). It was a boring and yet steadily simmering discussion, to the extent that neither noticed when Tom slipped out.

If you want to get to know someone, really know them, you need to invade their privacy

Preferably, you start with their cell phone, but since most people nowadays keep that on their person at almost all times, their home is a close second.

A person's bedroom is the exact opposite of social media in that it practically reeks of honesty.

Go into someone's room - preferably in the middle of the week, unexpected and unannounced - and you'll learn more about the nitty gritty of their lives than even a diary could tell you. While diaries are meant for private consumption only, they paint a narrative as windowed and edited as any blog; everyone likes to talk about their feelings, no one likes to talk about their lives. A bedroom, on the other hand, isn't an outlet for emotional discharge. Purely practical, it leaves no room for emotional window dressing, reflecting life at its most sincere.

The vitamins and water bottles on the nightstand show you they're on a health kick. The candy wrappers in the rubbish bin tell you it's not going so well. Books kept within reach of the mattress? They prefer a quiet evening to wind down. A discreet, velvet pouch wrapped "neck and back massager" - they're lonely, but embarrassed. Dishes piled on the floor beside a television remote imply they prefer to eat here, even though they have a perfectly good dining room; consider it safe to assume they prioritize comfort.

That was one advantage to having gone to boarding school - Tom had become exceptionally good at interpreting a bedroom analysis.

She'd said she'd already packed everything she wanted, and the boxes were still visibly open on the bed. The room wasn't anywhere near empty, he noted. Whatever she was bringing with her, it was all things she prioritized. Things she wanted to keep close.

He wasted no time beginning to investigate.

This wasn't a proper bedroom analysis by any means. Not even close. For one thing, the room was clean, effectively sterilizing it of all evidence. For another, he could hardly be as thorough as he'd like with the threat of his father literally looming behind the door.

Still, it wasn't entirely useless. You can tell a lot about someone's intentions based on what they pack.

Flipping open the cardboard flap, the first thing he saw, and promptly removed, were clothes. Three changes of work clothes, comprised only of the most basic items. Black pants. Grey skirt. Navy blouse. No one would notice if she rewore them. A laptop. Work related, judging by the worn state of the case handle. A prescription pill bottle - TAKE 1-2 AT BEDTIME, OR AS NEEDED FOR ANXIETY - from one Doctor Poppy Pomfrey, no doubt a name to search later. Two toiletry bags - one that actually held toiletries, and one that she'd shoved all the important cords and chargers into.

The next(and final) box, was significantly larger and stuffed to the brim with books. The literary classics looked well cared for, but by no means untouched. Her copy of Jane Eyre had no dog eared pages, no tears in the paper, but the spine showed just how many times it'd been read. What he found beneath the upper layer of fiction, however, was far more interesting. She may have read those overrated, college required paperbacks before bed, when she wanted to wind down, but what she really enjoyed reading was packed first.

Biographies. Medical textbooks(some of her other, lesser loved textbooks were notably left on her bookshelf, unpacked and soon to be forgotten). True crime novels, some detailing grizzly murders and the following investigation, others that focused on cold cases, unsolved mysteries.

For most people, they stop reading once they leave school. They'll read a book a year if it really catches their eye or was recommended in some vapid magazine, and they'll spend hours stuck in the cycle of refreshing all their social media, but it's all mindless entertainment.

If this brief analysis showed him anything, it was that she wasn't content with living an autopilot life - she wanted to keep growing, keep learning, keep busy, keep _thinking_.

That, and that the snarling, oversized beast that perched on her dresser gave the distinct impression that she had poor taste in company.

(Admittedly, so did her current relationship status.)

Startling, he reflexively tossed the discarded items back into the box, hastily throwing the clothes on top.

A moment later, once he'd caught his breath and realized he'd not, in fact, been caught, he took the time to fold the top layer of clothes so they once again looked untouched, and then to shut the box.

Stepping closer, he understood why the pictures on Instagram only ever showed this monster looking out fogged windows in aesthetic shots, or curled up into an indiscernible mass of fluff. Its head, too small for the massive accompanying body, centered grotesque looking features more fit for a gargoyle than a feline. It looked like a cat, but with a bit more "The Hills Have Eyes." To say it was hideous would be putting it mildly. As its mouth opened in an agitated hiss, its smushed face seemed to distort even further.

Another voice interrupted his examination.

"Crookshanks, be nice."

As soon as Hermione walked into the room, the growling ceased. It perked up, bright and attentive towards her.

"He didn't scratch you, did he? He can be awful mean to strangers." Reaching forward, she scooped it up into her arms in a single swoop. Though the cat was practically wider than her, it didn't seem to mind as it quickly delved into delighted purring. It nuzzled under her jaw, nearly moving her head with the force it pushed against her chin.

A lot of women use cats as outlets for any pent up urges they may have to cuddle and hold something small, loud, and useless - like a baby. Much like when someone has a baby, they're often incredibly proud of this creature, insistent on holding it up for recognition and public approval. They will be supremely displeased if you tell them it looks like one of the potatoes the grocery store refuses to sell.

"No," said Tom, looking away from the cat, back to its owner. "He's lovely."

"Did you hear that?" she asked it, voice obnoxiously high pitched and all too sing-songy, "Did you make a friend? You're being so nice, aren't you?"

Tom never much understood the affinity women had for cooing at animals.

Hesitantly, he reached a hand out towards it, stroking along the spine. It tilted its head curiously, eyeing him once before suddenly rearing back, throwing itself into his chest. It took everything in him not to drop it out of reflex.

" _Oh!_ Hermione practically squealed in delight, "You did make a friend, didn't you? You're being such a good, _good_ boy, learning to be nice."

Tom stood, motionless, while this beast continued to assault him. Fur fluffed into his mouth. Claws dug into his shoulder. Should you ask him later, he'd compare the purring against his ear to the growls supposedly heard at the gates of hell.

The lack of enthusiasm must have shown on his face, because a second later, Hermione was straightening up, pink faced, to clear her throat. "Sorry, he just - he usually doesn't like people very much." She chuckled, awkward and nervous as she smoothed out her hair, but he didn't point it out. "The first time your dad came over, he didn't even stay the night because Crooksie here kept biting him - gods, it must have been something like a dozen times. I felt awful. He can be a bit of a bully if he doesn't know someone."

At the mention of the attack against his father Tom resumed stroking the animal. "He doesn't know me."

Frowning, she observed the pair. "No, he doesn't. Perhaps he just likes you. Do you like animals? Maybe that's why. My mum always said they can _tell_ , and that they're a good judge of character because of it."

It's a fairly commonly held misconception that animals have some sort of psychic ability to judge one's intentions, a notion he'd assumed Hermione too logical to have entertained. In reality, there's nothing supernatural or spiritual about it - just basic pattern recognition. Most communication is nonverbal, though humans have a tendency to overlook subtleties. Without the distraction of language, animals are more in tune with predatory body language.

Being liked by animals, not unlike being liked by women, is much more easily accomplished once you stop acting like a predator. Or, at the very least, once you mask your distaste for them.

Doing his best to keep the dryness from his tone, he vaguely answered, "I think they're interesting."

The growling resumed as the door swung open. "I _told you_ we shouldn't have brought him. Checked outside - he's not there. I'll give Frank a call, but-"

Riddle Senior stopped short as he made direct eye contact with his son before abruptly turning back to Hermione. "You really shouldn't leave him alone around here." He poorly concealed a sneer as he gave his son a distrustful once over. "He's got sticky fingers."

"I got tired of listening to you two bicker," said Tom, interjecting before she had the chance. Eyes narrowed, he added, "And besides, I found this." Nudging, he demonstratively jostled the cat, ignoring the resulting grumbles of displeasure.

"Great. Put it down and grab a box."

" _Tom!_ " As they both turned, Hermione bashfully told the younger, "Not you." Her head turned before she caught the glare he sent her way, turning back to his father. "It's alright, really, he's just curious. And we were being rather rude - you can't blame him for being uncomfortable."

Though he contemplated pointing out that she was currently doing exactly what she'd just described as rude, he held his tongue.

His father seemed to be doing the same, swallowing once before half relenting, "Still, we should get going." As he stepped forward, reaching for a box, the cat once again began hissing and spitting, claws extending just short of ripping into the flesh beneath them. Exasperated, he rolled his eyes. "Will you put that thing down already? I don't want the cat fur in my car."

Tom took no time to think through the idea he had next. "Alright. Where's his carrier?"

The other occupants of the room froze.

Of course, he knew that Hermione wasn't planning to move in completely, not yet, and the cat was supposed to be staying here. It had a timed food dispenser, as well as its own water fountain, and as far pets went, cats were some of the more convenient in that they could be left to their own devices for short periods of time. But that wasn't the point.

Mimicking ignorance, he scratched behind the cat's ears, pleased with the way its purrs added to the performance.

"He's not coming," Riddle Senior forcefully protested, "He's not."

Clutching Crookshanks, Tom directed his focus back where it mattered: Hermione. Urging his voice to waver, he argued, "You can't just leave him here."

Anxious, she bit her lip, rubbing over her arm. "I'm not abandoning him. I'll still be here a lot of the time - we're just moving some of my stuff. He'll be fine."

Furrowing brows added to the look of distress. "But what if he gets lonely?"

"He won't," her answer was quick, automatic, "he's a very independent animal."

Hanging his head, he changed his tactic. "He'll be happier with us, though."

The word 'us' means a lot to someone like Hermione. It's a confirmation of solidarity. Connection. Community. Teamwork. Everything that an ambitious, idealistic social worker values. It would be outrageous of her to deny him now.

He knew what he'd won as soon as she straightened, looking to his father with a hopeful, optimistic tilt.

Riddle Senior slumped. "Hermione, I really don't think-"

"He's going to come with once you get married, anyways," Tom cut in, much to his father's obvious displeasure. "Might as well have it be now, so he can get used to it."

Almost imperceptibly, Hermione flinched. His father didn't seem to notice. Finding no excuse to argue, he gave her a questioning look.

A little smile and a half shrug was all the answer necessary.

Though not without a sigh, he acquiesced the decision. "Fine." He stepped forward, reaching out to pull her into his chest and wrap his arms around her shoulders. "You're right."

She wasn't. It hadn't even been her idea.

Fingers toying with the ends of her hair, he pressed a kiss to the crown of her head. "It's a solid next step, isn't it? Not too big, not too scary."

Without comment, Tom noted the unusual choice of words.

Reciprocating, she returned the embrace. Despite her voice being somewhat muffled from the way she pressed into her partner's chest, her response was clear. "Thank you."

Riddle Senior looked far too pleased with himself for having not actually done anything.

Nauseated by the display and finding his interest fleeting, Tom interjected. "Can we go now?" In a half-hearted attempt to seem less rude, he added, "I'm hungry."

Immediately, the couple separated.

* * *

In the car, Tom sat in with the carrier on his lap - it would hardly suit his performance to seem indifferent now. Though most animals scream incessantly when transported, Crookshanks was calm and surprisingly complicit, almost seeming to understand.

"I'm honestly kind of shocked he warmed up to you so quickly," Glancing over the back of her seat, Hermione peered through the bars of the carrier. "When I came in, he was growling, but he got over it almost right away. It's just a bit odd, isn't it?"

Riddle Senior easily, albeit bitterly, retorted, "Maybe it thought he was me."

First, she blinked, surprised, but a grin broke her composure as she began to laugh. "I'm sorry," despite the laughter, she sounded genuine, "but I think you might be right. You do look a lot alike."

"Our eyes are different," Tom automatically interjected.

He liked to remind people of that. They shared the same name, the same face, but that was where the similarities ended.

Irritably drumming his fingers across the steering wheel, Riddle Senior changed the subject without further comment.

* * *

**May, 2017**

When Tom woke up, well past breakfast and into the early hours of the afternoon, Hermione wasn't beside him. She rarely was, but he'd reached for her anyways, discontent to remember how she'd stormed off in a huff that morning. After he'd checked around - pointedly avoiding any opportunity to be roped into tea with his grandparents - and found no sign of her, he came to the conclusion that she'd left.

Frank later confirmed it, citing that she'd had a few errands to run.

It's an odd feeling, to want to please and punish someone in equal measure. There's not many ways to describe it, or things to compare it to.

Touching her seemed to quiet the need for both. Finding any tender place he could sink his teeth into - that worked even better. If it was the power he had over her, or the control, he didn't much care to name it. He didn't much care at all, so long as it worked.

The silent treatment was practically torture.

The waiting was unpleasant. The uncertainty damn near itched.

No matter how mad she was, he knew she wouldn't do anything. Not with his reputation on the line as much as her own - even if she wanted to play the martyr, she'd never leave anything to happen to him because of it.

That didn't change that she'd just _left_.

Some people think that running away from your problems is more mature than facing them head on. They use all sorts of therapist approved semantics to justify their avoidance - "cooling off," "taking a breather" - but it's merely a sugar coating. Much like when your significant other says you're not breaking up, that you're just taking a break, you know they're only delaying the inevitable.

Though he'd checked his phone a dozen times, he refused to call. In the back of his mind, he wondered if perhaps, from wherever it was she'd run off to, she was doing the same thing. Browsing the shelves of a bookstore, or sipping a cappuccino, unable to focus because she was all too aware of the weight of the phone in her back pocket, waiting, anxious and eager and _angry_ as he was.

He'd tried to read, but when his eyes merely trailed over the pages, he abandoned the book. Pacing, he ran a hand through his hair.

If anything, she should be calling him. She should be coming home - she should _be home_ \- and she should be apologizing, groveling, making all sorts of pretty little promises and excuses, and-

He checked his phone again.

Nothing.

Impulsively, he threw it across the room, quietly relieved when it hit the bed instead of the wall.

He wouldn't call first.

* * *

She got home at 7:06 pm. He knew that because he'd been looking at his phone - just checking email, of course - when he'd heard the front door open.

From where he rested against his bed, he stilled, silent.

The resounding footsteps up the stairs were unmistakably hers, quieter than usual, but rushed. Shooting up from the bed, he made it to the hallway just as the door to his father's room - _her room_ \- shut.

He knocked once. Then twice, when she didn't open up.

Then he heard the shower running.

Rolling his eyes, he dropped the facade of courtesy and twisted the knob with a muttered, ' _for fuck's sake_ ,' pleased that at the very least she hadn't locked the door.

When he shut it behind him, however, he did.

Following the sound, he entered the bathroom without a second thought to find her leaning against the edge of the sink, fully clothed as she let steam fill the room. Rather than linger in the doorway, he shut that door too.

"Turn the water off and stop avoiding me."

Not looking up, she shook her head. "I'm going to shower, I just-"

"You already showered today."

"Maybe I feel dirty."

For as much as she called him dramatic, she seemed to have quite the taste for histrionics herself. "Well, you're not, so it doesn't matter. Shut it off." When she made no move to obey, he added, "You can ignore me just as easily without wasting water. It's bad for the environment. Think of the polar bears."

"Polar bears are most affected by climate change, not water waste." Regardless of her compulsive need to correct misinformation, he got the point across. Rising from the sink, she turned the tap before straightening, standing in front of him with her chin raised. "I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

Rather than step aside, he blocked the doorway entirely. "Too bad."

" _Tom, move._ "

Eyes following the movement from where her fists clenched, it occurred to him that she might try to hit him. It also occurred to him that he almost hoped she would.

"No." Unwavering, he held eye contact even as he took note of the unusual puffiness around her eyes. Regardless, her cheeks were dry; if she'd been crying, it'd been a few hours ago. "I came home to see you."

"No." She shifted, drawing back into something more professional, more authoritative, and entirely less likable, "You came home because you hate your father."

His jaw ticked. She kept talking.

"Right now, there's nothing I can say to you that you'd want to hear, and I don't want to fight with you. Please move. Let me go to bed. If you ask Frank, I'm sure he'll drive you back, or you can just take your car and do it yourself."

Unmoving, he argued, "If you want me to leave, drive me back yourself."

"I don't ' _want you to leave_ ,'" she snapped, "but it was a bad idea for you to come home in the first place and you know it."

"Sorry, am I not welcome in my own home anymore?"

She didn't respond immediately. She couldn't, not without either agreeing with him or contradicting everything she'd ever told him. When she finally spoke again, her voice was deceptively gentle. "I told your father that we needed to talk when he gets home. I'm going to tell him I want a divorce. That conversation will go a lot more smoothly if you're not around."

It felt like all the air had left his lungs. Like an unexpected blow to the chest. Actually, a punch would have been preferable - violence was something he was familiar with, something he knew how to handle.

His initial response was less than eloquent. " _You're leaving me?_ "

"What?" She flinched, rearing back as though she'd been slapped.

"Don't give me that," he sneered, "it's implied, isn't it? I came home for you. The only reason I didn't let him ship me off to one of those American schools was because I wanted to stay here, _with you_. And you're just going to throw that all away because, what?"

"Are you seriously trying to make my marriage about _yourself_? Are you really trying to do that?" Folding her arms over her chest, she looked up with an exasperated glare.

"Why shouldn't I? Clearly you're not going to."

"You're right," she scoffed, "I'm absolutely not. Because it isn't about you."

"Except _is it_ ," he stressed.

In his head, guilt was classified as a type of mental illness. Unlike regret, an emotion which could be utilized and learned from, guilt served no practical purpose. It was illogical. Corrosive. It could make people want to hurt themselves. It could make people want to hurt him.

Fortunately, morality is pliable.

Lying is wrong until your girlfriend asks if you like her new haircut. Theft is wrong until your family is starving. Murder is wrong until the person you killed deserved it.

It's all about the narrative, and there's no one better at spinning a story than Tom Riddle.

"For the first time, I have a home, rather than just a house I stay at a few weeks out of the year. I have a family that's not trying to get rid of me all the time. I have that because you gave it to me. If you take that from him, you're taking it from me, too."

Language is important. Semantics play a crucial role in shaping any narrative. Play to empathy. Make it personal. Make it hurt, if you have to.

"I'm not ready for you to leave me yet."

Blinking, she broke eye contact. Blatantly uncomfortable, she practically squirmed under the pressure. "I can't just keep doing this. " Even as she tried to hold firm, she sounded uncertain. "I can't just do nothing."

Leaning back against the door, he sighed. "I know."

He really didn't. It's not as though he'd never thought about how this marriage would dissolve, but this was different in that it was out of his control. Always having imagined being the one to burst that bubble, he'd thought of a dozen dramatic, cinema worthy endings to the affair. However, reality doesn't allow for such endings. You have to account for loose ends, and the fact of the matter is, it's okay to have a step parent, it's not okay to be with one - if you have to say it's not _technically_ incest, you probably just shouldn't say it at all. Frankly, he didn't trust Hermione to be able to spin this to allow for a favorable outcome.

There were few solutions that came to mind.

"Can you hold off on telling him?" he asked, running a hand through his hair. "Just for now. Just until I come home for the summer. And then we can figure something out together."

She frowned. "I really don't see how that'll be helpful. At all. You know that getting involved will just make it worse."

By worse, she meant it would make his father angry. That, he wouldn't deny. "Don't think of it that way. Think of it as... allowing me time to adjust."

After a hesitant pause, she argued, "I already told him we need to talk."

There were only so many things a couple could need to talk about. No one was dying. Divorce wasn't an option. She wasn't pregnant - nor would she ever be, if he had any say in the matter. The last thing they needed was a marriage counselor. Finally, he decided on, "Tell him you think he travels too much."

"...I really don't think-"

"Hermione, _please_."

Despite her fidgeting, the look she gave was stern. "I can't make any decisions right now. I need time to think."

That was precisely his point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my favorite headcanons is that Tom, like Harry, looks just like his father but has his mother's eyes(though, in his case, just the color because Merope was a little editorial in the face), and I had to include that here. Also, there's not going to be smut every chapter. That will be written as I so please, when I feel like it. And here's a special thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments - I really appreciate it.


	3. Here Lies Peter, A Useless Rat

**July, 2014**

As a child, Tom had occasionally thought about what it would've been like to have an animal. A dog he could train to bite people, or a snake that could swallow its prey in one piece. Now that he was older, he didn't much see the appeal.

Crookshanks, however, he outright liked.

It was entirely unexpected. The novelty of having tricked his father into bringing home the cat wore off very quickly once they actually got home. Despite what the internet leads you to believe, cats don't actually do much. They sleep eighteen hours a day. Crookshanks had an automated, timed food dispenser that _dinged_ for meals every eight hours on the dot, at which point the cat would come running, a water fountain(yes, Hermione was one of _those_ cat ladies), and a self cleaning litter box, leaving very few additional chores to be done regarding his care.

Not that Tom would have been the one doing them, anyways - it was Hermione's cat, and Frank was the one responsible for all the mundane cleaning.

He hadn't expected to like the cat any more than he'd expect to like a new sofa for the living room, or the books Hermione kept bringing home to add to the library. However, he'd also not expected to discover he had anything in common with this seemingly worthless creature. Much to his delight, he'd assumed incorrect.

They were both thieves.

He'd been at his computer, reading, when he'd made the discovery. Crookshanks usually spent his days sleeping, and his evenings prowling, but at this moment, he'd sat directly behind Tom's chair, yowling incessantly.

"Shut up," he grumbled, not offering any attention beyond the irritable dismissal.

Though he did his best to ignore it, his resolve snapped when he felt claws batting at his feet. Spinning the chair around, he was fully prepared to hurl the offending animal out and slam the door shut behind him.

But then he saw it.

The yowling ceased as Crookshanks sat proud and pretty before him, eagerly displaying the silver cufflinks in front of his paws.

Reaching down, Tom picked them up.

They were unmistakably his father's. Specifically, the pair he wore to work. Not the fancy diamond ones he wore when he wanted to show off, but regardless. They were sterling silver, well made and engraved with a cursive lettering of his initials. Thinking about it, Tom was somewhat surprised that the cat had managed to steal them, _both of them_ , without having accidentally swallowed.

Sparing a fond look of surprise to the smugly purring cat, Tom pocketed them without hesitation before reaching his hand down. "You're a clever little thing, aren't you?"

The cat trilled its affirmation, eagerly jumping into his lap.

* * *

**May, 2017**

Hermione slept in her own bed that night. Or, more accurately, her husband's.

Tom had offered her his own, of course. He'd even tried to sneak her into it, dragging her back towards the door with teasing touches, playful nips to her lip, hands sliding under shirt. Promises of _more_ , if she'd just come with him.

But she didn't. Placing a hand against his shoulder, she pushed him back. Holding the distance between them, she took one deep breath before shaking her head and promptly turning straight around.

He decided rather adamantly not to worry himself with that. Her temper tantrum wasn't his problem.

Returning to his own room, he sat down at his desk and quickly busied himself with the rabbit hole of the internet.

* * *

It was about two in the morning when Tom left the comfort of his bedroom to scour the kitchen for food. He checked the fridge first, then the cupboards, before occupying himself with a bag of crisps. In the back of his mind, he could hear Hermione scolding him for his choice - ' _that's not a real meal and you know it!'_ \- but he ignored it as he grabbed several handfuls and unceremoniously shoveled them into his mouth.

He could have grabbed a healthier, more well rounded choice, sure, but none of the leftovers looked too appealing, and he swore the microwave sounded louder at night.

When he'd finished his midnight snack and made his way back upstairs, he'd had no intentions of stopping by his father's room. It was only the sound of her voice that gave him pause.

"Tom?"

Evidently, her guilt induced pouting was over and she wanted him back now.

Without pausing to question whether or not he should, he opened the door.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the dim light of the hall. There was just enough light to leave her easily visible, propped up on her elbows against the mattress and peering over to him. He didn't step closer until she outstretched a hand.

Approaching the bed, he decided at the last second to walk to her side rather than take the unoccupied spot beside her. He hated this room; he wasn't spending the night here. Best not to give her any ideas otherwise. Sitting beside her on the mattress, he traced the fabric of the quilt. "What are you still doing up?"

Her voice was low, almost raspy as she answered, "I couldn't sleep."

Following the curve of her body under the covers, his hand slid until it rested against her hip. "You know my bed is always welcome to you."

She shook her head. His jaw ticked.

Reaching for the water bottle on her nightstand, he changed the subject. "You seem overwhelmed. Have you been taking your meds?"

Sitting up properly, she gave him a questioning look. "What do you mean? It's a PRN. As needed. I don't have to take it every day."

Humming an affirmative, he pulled the bottle from the top drawer. "You seem like you need it now."

"I don't," she snapped. "Just because I'm upset doesn't mean there's something clinically wrong with me. In fact, I _should_ be upset right now."

He begged to differ, paying her no mind as he unscrewed the cap. "You know, irritability can be a symptom of anxiety. One that's often overlooked, I might add."

"Funny, I was under the impression you were studying business, not medicine."

Pouring four pills into his palm, he ignored the remark. "I'm just trying to help, is all."

"I don't want your help."

Looking up, he held steady eye contact. "I know. But I'm offering it anyways."

Her eyes roamed over him, searching for sincerity before she seemed to find enough evidence to come to a decision. Drawing in a long breath, she reluctantly reached forward. "I only need one," she mumbled.

Victorious, he outstretched his hand, palm up.

Her eyes widened. "I said _one_ , Tom. Even the bottle says 1-2."

"The maximum prescribed dose is ten times that, and you can easily develop a tolerance. It's perfectly safe."

She didn't seem convinced. "Oh? Says who?"

"Bella, for one. But also, Google is free."

Still skeptical, she took only two from his hand. "Bellatrix just got out of the hospital for an overdose a month ago, and I'm not about to take medical advice from a bunch of junkies online."

After handing over the water bottle, he took her moment of distraction to pocket the rejected pills. "She didn't do it on accident, though. Say what you want about her, but she does do her research." Hermione frowned, but Tom didn't leave room for her to interrupt. "And you don't ask junkies for anything - the internet is full of valid, accurate resources. Learn how to fact check and it won't be a problem."

Tilting her head back, she swallowed down the pills. Screwing the cap back, she handed over the water bottle. "Bella's alright though, isn't she? Doing better?"

He rolled his eyes. "She's fine." To dispel the obvious concern, he added, "On new meds, I think."

She nodded, seemingly soothed by the passive reassurance. Why she felt so much concern for _his_ best friend - concern he didn't even have, frankly, and he was the one being inconvenienced here - was beyond him, but along with the rest of her sentimentality, he tolerated it.

Scooting over, she pointedly made for him to slip beside her under the covers. He shifted closer to the headboard, but made no move to truly join her. If she wanted to cuddle, she could stop being dramatic and come back to his room. He wasn't going to play house with her.

Again, she frowned, leaning back against the pillows, but said nothing.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, questing fingers seeking her own.

"I'm ...not entirely sure, honestly." She nuzzled more fully into the bedding, tightening a grip onto his hand. "I'm angry, I think. And it's easier to blame you, than to really think about why. But it's not your fault. And I'm sorry."

His thumb rubbed gentle circles over the back of her hand, but he said nothing, merely humming an affirmation.

Sighing, she curled closer to him. She closed her eyes, content to seek comfort in his closeness. "I really do love you, you know that?"

When someone says, 'I love you,' there's a correct answer. And it's not 'thanks.'

"I love you too," he echoed.

Still not opening her eyes, she sleepily answered, "That's the problem, isn't it? You'll never love me as much as you hate him."

She was probably - no, definitely - right. He loved her in his own perverse way, needed her, even if it pained him to admit it, but the hatred he felt for his father burned too hot for anything to compare.

Regardless, it hardly mattered.

In 1981, in the small American town of Skidmore, Missouri, a man named Ken Rex McElroy was shot in broad daylight, in front of a crowd of no less than thirty people. No one came forward. No one mourned.

And that's a real case, by the way. You can look it up.

But this has a point - McElroy was notorious amongst the community for the crimes he inflicted upon the helpless townspeople. Rape, assault, theft - the list goes on. The residents of Skidmore were not brought together by love. This was no tale of starcrossed lovers, or a community overwhelmed with the power of compassion. No one's small heart grew three sizes that day. Surely, some of these witnesses must have had their own quarrels, their own personal grudges. This public execution was an act of necessity, bordering on self defense.

As Hermione drifted off, aided quickly by her medication, Tom gently ran his fingers through her hair.

He didn't need to learn to forgive. He didn't need to learn to love her properly. He just needed to make her hate her husband as much as he did.

* * *

**July, 2014**

Dinner was the only true family meal in the Riddle household, but if you were unfortunate enough to be both awake and impatiently hungry during the midmorning breakfast hours, you were likely to run into someone. Frank woke up before dawn to make breakfast for Thomas and Mary Riddle, the remainders of which would be left to whoever wanted them.

The lucky thing about running into people at breakfast, as opposed to other times of the day, is that they're likely to be too caught up in their own business to attempt any conversation. You can walk straight past a man you've known your whole life without so much as a greeting, so long as you justify that you're too tired, too busy, for polite discussion.

Tom walked passed the still warm plate of eggs, bacon, and toast in favor of grabbing a box of cereal from the cupboard. As Hermione shuffled in only a moment after he'd grabbed a bowl, he braced himself for an obnoxious, overly cheerful greeting, but it never came.

Later, he'd muse it was because she hadn't had been appropriately caffeinated yet. For now, he took the silence with relief, accepting the spoon she handed him as he poured the milk into his bowl.

With a glance to her freshly poured, heftily filled coffee mug, he held up the milk. "Do you need it?"

She shook her head, almost smirking. "No, thanks. I take it black."

Rolling his eyes, he crossed the kitchen to put the jug back in the fridge.

Coffee is one of the most prominent examples of an acquired taste. Much like alcohol, its consumption is so commonplace that many people fear admitting the truth: That it's just plain gross. Everyone knows this, even coffee drinkers - _Especially_ coffee drinkers. That's why they insist on drowning out as much of the taste as possible, covering it with sugary confections of cream, caramel, and chocolate.

Black coffee drinkers are a rare and uniquely disagreeable breed.

They don't actually like the taste of coffee; No one does. They drink it as a testament of strength, much like how cliff divers jump, or how former athletes insist on moving heavy furniture on their own. If they insist they really do like it - and, most likely, they will, probably without you ever having to ask - they're lying. You can see the smug masochism written all over their faces.

"You might want to leave it out," she added at the last second, "Your father might want some when he comes down." He didn't hesitate as he tossed it back on the shelf and shut the refrigerator. She blinked. "...Or not."

Grabbing his bowl from the counter, Tom made his way over to the breakfast table. His grandparents didn't have many rules about the house, but his grandmother was _insistent_ that food was not to leave the kitchen, unless it was to go straight to the dining room table. She'd allowed for one exception when Tom had been ten and gotten scarlet fever, but he'd hardly been able to enjoy it over her shrill complaints and the burning of his throat with every swallow.

He only got two mouthfuls into his cereal before his father paced into the room.

Whereas a normal person would typically get ready and eat breakfast individually, in whatever order it so pleased them, Riddle Senior preferred to multitask. Combined with his mother's rules held more sacred than law, this meant he spent nearly all his mornings pacing back and forth across the house, up and down the stairs, as he followed his routine with the dedication of any working insect.

Down the stairs, into the kitchen. Grab dishes, serve food. Back upstairs, grab tie. Downstairs. Bite toast. Sip juice. Tie the tie. Up again, because he still needs his work shoes. Back down, because breakfast isn't over yet.

The neverending creaking off the wooden floors was worse than any nail on any chalkboard could ever be. Hermione, content with her breakfast and her book, hardly seemed to notice.

Tom grit his teeth and resolved to finish eating as quickly as possible.

On his next trip down, Riddle Senior pulled a thermos from the cupboard, filling it with about half coffee and half creamer before screwing the lip and replacing the pot. "I mentioned I'd be home late tonight, didn't I?" He called back, carelessly dropping his dishes into the sink.

Not looking up from her book, Hermione answered, "You did. Thicknesse, right? Still negotiating, I take it."

He sighed, rinsing his hands for only a second before reaching for the closest hand towel. "Unfortunately. He thinks he knows what he's talking about - I'm telling you, he'll be gone and replaced within a year. If he can't come to an agreement by tonight, it's in our best interest to just let it lie, pick it back up later if we need to. We've been generous enough as is."

Noncommittal, she hummed.

Pacing back towards the table, he placed a single finger under her chin, tilting it up. "You know, you're supposed to _eat_ at breakfast," he said, pulling the book from her hands, "not just drink coffee." Grabbing her bookmark, he marked her place before leaving it shut and out of arm's reach on the counter.

"I know," she blushed, reaching for her half empty coffee mug. "I can multitask."

"You can sip without putting down your book," he countered, voice lilting, "but, you always forget to eat. You get so wrapped up in _this_ ," he motioned to the discarded book, "that you're nearly late, so you skip breakfast. Then by lunchtime you wonder why you're shaking, unwilling to accept that you really shouldn't have that much caffeine on an empty stomach." Grabbing an entirely untouched piece of toast from her plate, he held it in front of her. "The solution is simple."

Despite her glare at his blatant condescension, she grabbed the other piece of toast, taking a sizeable bite from the edge.

"Now, don't go getting mad at me when you know I'm right."

After she'd finished chewing, she countered, "I'm not."

His lips quirked. "Oh, really? Then prove it."

Leaning in, he stopped just short of her lips, waiting for her to move. Stepping up to the challenge, she fisted the knot of his tie, pulling him closer.

Tom averted his gaze to his phone. He couldn't eat if he had to watch this. When a few seconds had passed and they still hadn't stopped, he pointedly cleared his throat.

Though he didn't look up, heard Hermione gasp and rightfully assumed that they'd ceased the nauseating spectal.

From the corner of his eye, he saw his father straighten, fixing his tie as he stood. Looking over to his son just long enough to cast an all too predictable glare, Riddle Senior quickly refocused on his soon-to-be fiancee. "You haven't seen my cufflinks anywhere, have you? I left them on the dresser last night, but this morning they weren't there."

She frowned, taking another bite of her food. "No, sorry. You have another pair though, don't you?"

"Yeah," he shrugged, though despite the dismissive gesture, the underlying annoyance was clear, "I grabbed the gold ones. That's just the pair I usually wear, and I'd like to know where they wandered off to."

Ripping a small piece off one of Hermione's bacon strips, Tom discreetly passed it under the table to the cat lurking beneath.

Hermione tilted her head, eyes acknowledging him with a curious little glint, before turning back to his father. "I'll look for them when I get home," she said, hiding an almost cheeky grin, "They probably just rolled off."

Riddle Senior huffed. "Don't bother, I'll just ask Frank. Or order another pair. It's fine." He gave her a final peck on the lips before grabbing his keys and heading out.

With the nuisance finally gone, Crookshanks crawled out from under the table.

Clicking her tongue in mock disapproval, Hermione turned her attention back to Tom. "You keep doing that, and eventually he's going to start begging."

He grinned, shaking his head. "Somehow, I find that unlikely."

Despite having only finished half her food, she got up. "I really need to get going, or I'll be late." She dropped her dishes much more gently, quietly, than her boyfriend had. "There's still coffee left. Do you want a cup before I dump it out?"

"Sure."

"Creamer?" She didn't turn as she asked, steadily pouring into the mug she'd just grabbed.

He thought for only a second before answering, "No."

* * *

**May, 2017**

When Monday rolled around, Tom deliberately overslept. The previous night, he'd texted Bella to ask her to record anything he'd miss and send him her notes. Everything else could be done online.

it went without saying that when Hermione came home that evening, she was less than pleased.

"Coming home for the weekend is one thing," she practically shrieked, "but you can't be missing school!"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he kept his tone reasonable. "Class isn't graded by attendance, and I got Bella to send me everything I need. I'll be fine."

He neglected to mention that Bellatrix's idea of notes was about one third relevant content, one third worthless doodling, and the remaining were less than polite observations about the occupants of the lecture.

"That's besides the point," she snapped, placing her hands on her hips. "Finals are coming up in just a few weeks. Now isn't the time to slack off if you want your degree!"

Sighing, he leaned back against the desk. "I've actually been meaning to talk to you about that." At her inquisitive head tilt, he admitted, "I'm thinking of dropping out."

She looked positively scandalized, her mouth opening, and then promptly closing before she could think of a proper response.

"You asked me if I was interested in business the first time we met," he continued, not waiting for her to begin her lecture. "And I said, 'if I have to be.' Well, I don't, and I'm not."

Visibly, she softened, though she still looked rather put out. "I thought you wanted to take over the company after you dad retires."

"I want to _inherit_ it," he corrected, "but that doesn't mean I want to run it. Honestly, seeing the work he does - it just looks tedious and boring. I don't want to talk to a bunch of smug tossers in suits all day, or fly all around the world to sign papers. I have better things to do with my time."

She shifted her weight, lips twisting into a lopsided frown. "Are you sure this isn't just because you're stressed? I think everyone considers quitting around finals."

"It's not that I'm stressed. I'm not stressed at all, actually."

She didn't look convinced. "Can you wait until exams are over just to be sure?" He nodded. The classes were easy. Boring, but easy. Sighing, she reminded him, "You really do need to go back. This is your home, and it's not like you're not welcome here, but you can't keep skipping class. And besides, you know it'll cause problems if you're here when he gets home."

Reaching out, he gripped her wrist and pulled her closer. "I'll wait until exams are over," he replied, pointedly ignoring the latter half of what she'd said. "Maybe over the summer I'll change my mind."

He wouldn't.

* * *

**July, 2014**

Cufflinks weren't the only thing that Crookshanks stole, though that was notably the most valuable. The clever little beast must have had some concept of worth, because he never brought rubbish. Oddities, sure, but never rubbish.

Socks. Ties. Thomas Riddle's dentures, and Mary Riddle's sewing needles. Charging cords. Papers - always swiped from his father's desk, not the bin beside it. A watch, though Hermione had intercepted him before he'd been able to dutifully deliver that one.

Tom began keeping all of Crookshanks stolen treasures in a shoebox much like his own, though this one he shoved rather carelessly under the bed. It was amusing, surely, but nothing worthy of being kept alongside his own accomplishments.

It still took everything in him not to burst out laughing when following the incident with the watch, Hermione guiltily confessed that Crookshanks might be the culprit behind his father's missing possessions. She'd said she'd start locking them up better.

With Crookshanks next delivery, Tom was fairly certain she hadn't been bluffing. There was no other plausible excuse for why _this_ was the most suitable gift that could be managed.

The rat, mangled but only half dead, twitched uselessly against where it'd been dropped onto the carpet of Tom's bedroom floor. One of it's back legs was broken, twisted out of place, and the other was outright missing entirely, but it used a single front paw to claw at the ground.

In the past, Tom had praised Crookshanks based on how worthy his gifts were - anything shiny earned him treats. The socks and cords were more annoying to lose than anything, so for those he merely accepted them with a small pat of thanks.

He wasn't entirely sure how to respond to the rat.

On one hand, it was both worthless and revolting, literally oozing blood and guts into his carpet. By those standards, the cat shouldn't be praised at all. On the other - had he not once wished for a dog he could weaponize? A cat might not be nearly ideal, but by the looks of it, there might be some potential here.

Sitting cross-legged on the ground, he watched it twitch and struggle while he contemplated how to dispose of it. Grabbing a pencil from his desk, he used the pointed end to prod at it.

It was alive enough to squeak.

Poking it again, he tried to remember how to remove blood stains. Cold water and peroxide, if he wasn't mistaken.

He wasn't sure how long he sat there, transfixed, before there was a knock at the door. One single knock, and then it opened.

"Your grandmother asked me to tell you that she…" Hermione trailed off, eyes wide and horrified, as she took in the scene in front of her.

Crookshanks meowed a single, cheerful greeting, rushing up to circle around her ankles. She didn't return the sentiment.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze to Tom. "What's this?" she asked, quiet, heistant.

Blinking, he blatantly answered, "Crookshanks brought me a rat."

"Yes," she hushed, practically hyperventilating as she avoided looking at it, "I can see that. What are you doing with it?"

Only now did he realize he still had the pencil in his hand, the lead tip dripped in blood. He swallowed. "I couldn't tell if it was alive at first. It wasn't moving, and I didn't want to touch it." Bowing his head, he spared another glance to the rat. It was still twitching. "Do you think we can take it to a vet?"

Still refusing to look down, she stated the obvious. "No, I don't think we can."

"...What did grandma want you to tell me?"

"That she wants to renew the family photos, and that you need a haircut."

He nodded. The photos were unavoidable, but he was pretty sure he could get out of having to do the haircut.

"Tom." He looked up. "We can't just leave this thing on your floor."

Obviously, she was right, but he also didn't know exactly what she had in mind. Probably not dropping it out the window(which is what he'd most likely have done). Flushing it down the toilet was probably too gruesome. Rubbish, maybe? "You said we can't take it to a vet," he reminded her.

"No," she dismissed the thought easily, wetting her lips as she contemplated a better solution. Eyeing around the room, she decisively crossed over to the desk, grabbed a sheet of paper, and knelt down beside him. "We're going to get it onto this piece of paper, so we don't have to touch it, and then we're going to take it outside."

As she attempted to jam the paper under the still wriggling rat, Tom thought about grabbing a plastic bag and throwing it out the way one might dispose of dog waste. But, watching her furrowed brows and flinching hands as the paper caught on the carpet, he dismissed the idea.

"Here," once again picking up the pencil, he pointed it towards the back of the rat, "That's not working. Just hold it still, and I'll flip it over."

"Don't use the pointed end!" she hissed, seeming more and more distraught by the second, "Just because it'll be dead in a minute doesn't mean you have to torture it first!"

He figured that's what Crookshanks was for. "Well, I'm not grabbing the end that has blood on it. Do you even know how many diseases this thing could be carrying?"

"Of course," she huffed, "Why do you think I said we're not touching it?" Unable to argue his point, she spared a glance back to the desk. There wasn't another pencil, and she didn't suggest getting up to find another. She probably didn't even think of it - panic has a way of making people lose all common sense. "Just, try to be gentle, okay?"

It's not as though the rat would live long enough to remember if he wasn't, but he still pushed with the flattened side of the pencil, rather than the sharpened tip. It sagged, not quite deadweight yet, but not enough strength to really fight, before finally flopping onto the blank sheet. With a single swift motion, Hermione folded the paper to carry it and stood.

She practically bolted out of the room, with Tom and Crookshanks lazily trailing after.

Having done his part, Crookshanks excused himself to his water bowl after they reached the bottom of the stairs. Tom, on the other hand, continued the venture outside, where he found Hermione digging through the recycling.

"You know," he called, circling back behind her, "I'm fairly certain you're supposed to compost corpses, not recycle them."

Sifting through old papers, she pulled out a small cardboard box. "I'm doing neither, thank you." Closing the bin, she crossed back over to where she'd left the rat, limply slumped over the paper she'd placed on the stone walkway. "When I was eight, my mum's cat once brought us a baby rabbit. Luckily - unluckily, maybe - he'd already, you know," died. The word she was looking for was 'died,' "but mum helped me bury him. I glued a couple popsicle sticks together, made this macabre little cross. Gave him a name and everything. It made me feel better."

Crouching down, she pulled the paper closer, only to halt with a sharp gasp. Even before he saw, he knew the horrifying realization she'd reached: it wasn't dead yet. Drawing closer, he found his confirmation. While the squeaking had stopped, the desperate clawing ceased, the chest still had the unmistakable rise and fall of life. Slow and unsteady, but there nevertheless.

He'd estimate it'd be dead within another ten minutes, tops.

"Hermione," he tapped her shoulder, "why don't we go inside?" When she didn't move, he added, "We can make tea."

He wasn't sure what else to suggest. It wasn't like he made a habit of consoling emotionally underdeveloped young women, and he wasn't going to offer to run her a bubble bath or make a batch of chocolate chip biscuits.

At the sound of sniffling, he looked over. Her eyes were brimmed unmistakably red. Halfway revolted, he reared back. "Are you _crying_?"

"No!" she snapped, gritting her teeth. "I just don't want to leave him here. Rats have feelings, you know. They're complex enough to show empathy. And, they're smart, too, as far as animals go. They can navigate mazes, and figure out how to operate simple machines."

None of this was relevant to how it was dying on the ground.

"Are you sure you don't want to take it to a vet?" he asked gently, more than a little unsettled by the bizarre display of emotion.

She shook her head. "He'd be dead by the time we got there - even if he wasn't, they'd just put him down. And besides, there's only one clinic nearby. I'm sure they're busy. They'd probably see it as a waste of time."

If they did, they'd be right.

As he watched a single tear fall down her cheek, an idea occurred to him. Later, he'd chide himself for not thinking on it longer than he did, but now he did no such thing. "You know how they kill the rats that are supposed to be fed as prey, or donated to schools?"

She answered automatically. "Carbon dioxide euthanasia."

Nodding, he hummed an affirmation. "It's designed to be quick. Painless." It was also designed to keep the corpse as intact as possible, without corrupting the body with unnecessary chemicals. He pointedly chose not to include this detail.

"I hardly see why that's relevant _now_ ," she grumbled, "seeing as there's no way to plausibly do that here."

Slipping his hand down, he pulled out his pocket knife.

Her eyes widened almost comically. " _No_ ," she gasped, "That's sick."

"He's suffering, Hermione." He hadn't actually checked if it was a 'he' - it was a rat. That's all that mattered. Still, he thought it'd help his case to use a sympathetic pronoun. "It doesn't have to be gruesome. Do you really think it's worse than leaving him here, waiting for the inevitable to run its course? That's cruel."

He knew he'd hit a soft spot when her hands began to shake, but when she looked up at him, doe eyes rimmed red and practically gleaming for him, that's when he knew he had her. Hook, line, and sinker. She shook her head. "I can't."

Switching the knife to his other hand, he softly ran his hand over her shoulder. "I'm not asking you to. We don't have popsicle sticks," the 'because we're not children' went unspoken but heavily implied, "but you can pull one of the rocks from the garden, and I'm sure Frank has a permanent marker in his shed. Think of a name. You can make a proper headstone. Go on, you don't even have to watch."

Uncertain, she gave him a somewhat skeptical look before nodding.

Once he'd heard the door to the shed shut, he turned back to the rat.

Hermione might have been too squeamish to properly end its misery, but Tom had no such qualms about decapitation.

* * *

When Hermione came back a few minutes later, holding the makeshift headstone in one hand and a garden shovel in the other, Tom took the shovel without comment and used it to dig a hole just deep enough to shove the cardboard box into.

She didn't even have to look at it.

Still letting the silence speak for them, he took the rock, taking notice of the name messily scrawled across it. Looking up, he asked, "Any particular reason you chose that name?"

Crossing her arms over her chest, she shrugged. "I couldn't think of one, but then I saw it on a newspaper in there. Figured it was as good as any."

Fair enough.

Unceremoniously, he patted the dirt down one more time before dropping the rock over the heap.

_Here lies Peter, a useless rat_

* * *

**May, 2017**

By the time Thursday had rolled around, Tom still hadn't returned to school. Even with Hermione's frantic pestering, and the way she damn near shoved him into the car at one point, he'd successfully managed to delay the inevitable.

He'd be going back. There was little doubt of that.

But, it'd be on his own terms - _after_ his father'd gotten home.

Though, for now, he'd sought refuge in a nearby pub. If the name didn't already give it away, The Hog's Head was by no means the best, but it was quiet(a delightful reprieve from Hermione's shrill nagging) and their scones were half decent.

Pulling out his phone, he pulled up Bellatrix's number and sent a quick message.

_I need a favor._

* * *

**July, 2014**

There are many quirks to living in old houses, and the Riddle family home had more than its fair share. While Tom could hardly pretend to care about the influences of the architecture, or the stain hidden under the living room rug from where his great-great uncle Albert had slipped and cracked his head on the piano, there was one thing he notably considered a perk.

The thick, noise concealing walls.

While newer construction homes are typically fleshed in thin layered drywall, the lath and plaster walls of older homes are thicker, sturdier, and protect its inhabitants from the inconvenience of being woken up every time someone sneezes or a phone rings.

If you can overhear an argument in its entirety, you know it's bad.

At first, the only sound to penetrate Tom's bedroom walls were muffled. If he tried hard enough, he could catch words here and there, but not enough for context.

It was the single yell that caught his attention, clearly audible despite all the insulation.

" _For fuck's sake, I am not crazy!_ "

He perked up, leaning towards the sound. The next to follow was clearly a rebuttal, and from an unmistakably feminine voice, but it was too muffled to be coherent.

" _Just, for one fucking second, forget all your bullshite psychology classes and listen to me. Listen to me!"_

In the following pause, Tom wasted no time getting up from his bed and quietly padding down the hall. While the walls may have been thick enough to cancel out most noise, the door, on the other hand, was not.

Rather than press himself directly against the door, he anchored himself on the wall beside the top of the stairs - far enough away that if someone were to suddenly open it, storming out in a dramatic huff, he'd not be caught eavesdropping.

The next voice he heard was undoubtedly Hermione's, hushed and soothing in sharp contrast to his father's.

"Okay, calm down. I'm listening. Go ahead."

The floor creaked rhymically, and despite the barrier of the door, he could see the image clearly in his mind's eye - Hermione, sitting properly on the bed while his father rummaged restlessly around the room. "Don't think I don't know how this sounds, okay, because I can assure you, _I do_ , okay? I just-"

Riddle Senior cut off with an exaggerated sigh. Again, the floor creaked, and Tom knew with absolute certainty that his father was pacing, running his hands through his hair and grasping at the roots. He knew, because he'd seen the gesture a million times. He knew, because on occasion he caught himself doing the same thing - and forcibly halting the moment he came to such a realization.

Tom idly wondered if the man was going to end up wearing down the carpet.

"I just… Don't like that he's home all the time."

Now _that_ was an interesting turn of events.

Tom had been the subject of more than a few arguments in his lifetime. It wasn't unusual for him to overhear his father yelling about his current placement - to his grandparents, to Frank, to whatever administrative official was unlucky enough to be on the other end of the telephone - but rarely did he find himself so eager to hear the response.

It was almost anticlimactic. "This is his house. He's allowed to be in his own home."

"Well, yes," Tom had never heard a less sincere agreement in his life, "but that's beside the point. It's just different, now that you're here."

"And just what is _that_ supposed to mean?" The defensive outrage in her voice was almost comical. He imagined his father's glare at her naive ignorance, met by her own passive aggressive, perplexed blinking. "You _asked me_ to move in. Are you expecting him to just move out now? Or me?"

"What? No!" Again, Riddle Senior trailed off, this time with something between a huff and an exasperated groan, "It's not - okay, look, all I'm saying is that he's a troubled kid, and I don't want you to have to get wrapped up in this. You said he killed a rat in front of you. That doesn't concern you at all?"

She sputtered, "That's completely out of context! I deal with 'troubled' kids all the time, Tom. It's _literally_ my job."

"And that's exactly my point! He's _not_ your job!"

"No, he's yours," she venomously retorted, "But you know what is my job? Stepping in when an adult is being irresponsible."

"I'm not being irresponsible! It's better for everyone if he has his space." Tom could only imagine the disbelieving look she was undoubtedly sporting, because only a second later his father continued, "Did I tell you about that time, when he was eleven? He was home for the weekend, between school and his first week of camp. I was packing for a business trip and I'd left one of my watches out. He tried to grab it, and I told him to go to his room, but he didn't. He just kept looking at me, and then back at the watch with this - this _look_. I don't even know how to describe it. The next day, when I went to put it in my suitcase, it'd been smashed. The glass broken, the diamonds fallen out. It looked like the kid took a hammer right to the face of it. And it was back in its case. He _wanted me_ to see it. And - And I see him, and the way he looks at you, and all I can think about is the shattered face of that watch and I _fucking_ hate it."

There was a tense pause before she replied with a solemn, "I think you need to see a doctor."

Tom didn't have to see the disgusted sneer on his father's face to know it was there. "No." A scoff. " _No."_

There's a universal tone people use to deliver delicate news, like that a loved one has passed away, or that your test results are looking grim. Hermione was using it now. "I understand that this is hard for you. That there's a lot of trauma involved, and I know you've fixated on him as the cause of it. But what happened to you is _not_ his fault, and you can't keep punishing him for it."

"What did I say about the psychoanalysis?" Riddle Senior snapped, tone harsher than his son had ever heard him use with a woman.

"Stating the obvious hardly qualifies as psychoanalysis," she easily shot back.

Tom had to bite the inside of his cheek and slap a hand over his mouth to contain his laughter, both to avoid getting caught and because he _needed_ to hear this.

"So that's it, then? You think I'm crazy?"

"I did _not_ say that!"

"Then why can't you just trust me on this?"

"Because you're being irrational!" This was the first time, both in this conversation and ever, that Tom had heard Hermione yell. "Have you even _once_ considered that he may have just been curious about your watch, because he was a child and you told him not to play with it, and that he accidentally broke it? That he put it back, not to spite you, but because he was a _kid_ who didn't want to get in trouble and didn't know what else to do? Have you considered that he might resent me because I've spent more time in this house - _his home_ \- in the last year than he has in his entire life?"

On almost all accounts, she was wrong. He was just as spiteful as his father had said, even if the man did sound starking mad as he said it. The one thing she was right about was that she probably had spent more time in his home than he had, though, notably, he didn't resent her.

Not for that, anyways.

Eagerly leaning forward, he listened closely for his father's rebuttal. Though, he didn't get to hear it, because Crookshanks had curled around his heels, and with that single step forward, knocked him off balance.

It was less than fortunate that his father's bedroom was situated right beside the staircase.

Another quirk of old houses: they have a lot of stairs.

Though he didn't tumble backwards, rolling dramatically like they do in the movies, the initial impact of his shoulder against the wood was hard, and every step thereafter only made it worse.

From where he landed at the bottom of the stairs, heaving as he tried to catch his breath, Hermione and Riddle Senior quickly followed down. His face was flushed, and his jaw still tense from the former conversation. The only look he spared his son was one of disdain.

Hermione, on the other hand, looked purely panicked. Immediately, she knelt down beside the injured son, reaching out. "What happened?"

"Get the fuck off me," he snarled, jerking away and wincing as the movement caused another surge of pain. He protectively reached for his throbbing shoulder. "What do you think happened? It's not like I decided to take a nap in the middle of the floor."

Worriedly biting her lip, she glanced between the injured boy in front of her and his impassive father. Riddle Senior sighed, as though this were nothing but tedious to him. "Hermione, you know first aid, right?"

She nodded - shakily jerking her head to the best of her current abilities - before turning back to Tom. "Er - can you tell me where it hurts?"

Though he thought it should be obvious, he answered nevertheless. "Shoulder."

Fidgeting, she reached out and then pulled back, like she wasn't sure what to do with her hands now that he'd told her to keep them to herself. "Can you rate your pain for me?"

Narrowing his eyes, he snarked, "Two stars. Would not recommend."

"Tom!" Gritting his teeth and doing his best to ignore the renewed surge of pain, Tom turned towards the scolding voice of his father. "She's trying to help you. Cooperate."

While he very rarely found himself in the mood to play nice with the bane of his existence, this instance found him even more notably impatient. Sneering, he quickly shot back with, "I'm sorry, is there a Schmidt pain index equivalent for falling down the stairs? Perhaps _the doctor you should be taking me to_ would be happy to educate me on the matter."

A hand very gently tapped his side, bringing him back. He nearly snapped, once again telling Hermione to keep her grabby hands off him, but she spoke first. "You think you want to see a doctor?"

The former shakiness in her voice was gone, replaced by a softer, more soothing tone he was sure was meant to distract him from continuing to bicker with his father. If she wanted his attention that bad, she could have it. "I'd like to see someone who actually knows what they're doing."

Ignoring the snub, she asked, "You said it's your shoulder. Does it hurt in the front or in the back."

He briefly paused before relenting, "Front."

"Sharp or dull pain?"

"Dull. Sharper when I move."

Frowning, she hesitantly questioned, "Is it alright if I take a look at it?"

Though his knee jerk response was _absolutely not_ , he held his tongue and took a moment to consider. Riddle Senior watched the scene with furrowed brows and sharp eyes.

Tom nodded.

Shaking fingers reached out, carefully undoing only the top two buttons of his shirt, just enough to peel back the collar. Despite the impossibility of being able to see his own collarbone without a mirror, he still looked down.

A fleeting realization occurred to him that his lack of clean t-shirts that morning had been rather fortuitous, because there's no way he could pull a shirt over his head without wincing right now. Just the small pull of his neck was enough to sting.

With the top of his left shoulder exposed, Hermione quickly pulled back her grasp.

Though he looked up for her response, Riddle Senior was the next to speak up, reintegrating himself into the conversation with a clearing throat. "How does it look?"

"Not _obviously_ broken," Hermione said, which Tom could only assume meant there were no protruding bones, "but there's already bruising and swelling, not to mention the pain." She pressed her lips together tightly, looking nervously between the two of them before finally admitting, "I think he needs a doctor. It doesn't look too serious, but it could be fractured and there's no way to tell without an x-ray."

Sitting back on her heels, she looked up to Riddle Senior as though she expected him to say no.

He didn't. Rather, he mumbled an agreement before pulling out his phone to call Frank.

"Do you need help getting up?" Hermione offered a hand.

Glaring at it, Tom pushed himself back against the wall. "No. I'm fine."

Using the rail of the staircase, he hauled himself up before walking out to the car without another word.

* * *

**May, 2017**

When Tom returned home later that evening, he didn't seek out Hermione. Well, not right away.

"Frank?" he called into the kitchen, where the caretaker was undoubtedly busy washing up after the dinner he didn't attend.

Predictably, he was right. The man shut off the water and reached for the nearest hand towel. "What are you doing here, kid? Shouldn't you be at school?"

At age twenty, Tom hardly qualified as a kid anymore, but nicknames are forever. "I," he paused, sounding awfully contrite, "I needed to come home."

The caretaker looked concerned, stepping closer. "Are you alright?"

He hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "Yeah," he said, "I just need a favor." At the look of inquiry, he continued, "Bella's in trouble again. She went to a party, and, well..I'm worried about her. Someone needs to pick her up. And you've heard all those stories about girls getting into taxis and then - you know. I don't want anyone to hurt her."

Frank nodded. "That's very sweet of you, kid, but I have to pick your dad up from the airport in less than an hour. Why don't you take your car and go get her yourself? Do you know where she is?"

"Yeah, I do, I just," he trailed off, looking around to be sure no one was there, before lowering his voice to admit, "I took some of Hermione's pills."

"Tom! Why on _earth_ would you do such a thing! You know what a slippery slope that is. You _know_ what your father's been through."

"I - I was nervous. Jittery. I felt like I needed them. I know I shouldn't have, I know. Trust me, _I know._ "

Grasping both his shoulders, Frank looked at him very seriously. "Tell me the truth, do you need help?"

"No," Tom assured him, because in all honesty, he hadn't even actually _taken_ the pills, just stashed them away in the event that he may need them elsewhen. They made a great excuse not to drive, though. "It's a one time thing. Promise. I just can't drive."

Frank sighed, releasing his grip and leaning back against the counter. "You can't do that again," he said sternly, "The missus needs her medication, otherwise she wouldn't have it."

It was a PRN. _Pro re nata_ \- as needed. She didn't even take them every day.

"I know," Tom said, ducking his head. "Trust me, I - I don't know what came over me."

"It's not your fault," Frank quickly assured him, "It runs in the family. You just need to remember that." He ran a hand over his face, contemplating, before finally saying, "I can't go get Bella. I'd love to help, but I can't. I need to pick up your dad. That's my job."

"I can find him another ride," Tom quickly countered, "I'll call Mister Malfoy, or Rosier, or someone. They'd all be happy to pick him up." At the look of skepticism from the other man, he continued, "Please, Frank. I can't just leave her out there. What if she gets hurt? I need someone I can trust to go get her. That's you."

With a sigh, the caretaker finally relented. "Alright, but you _need_ to make sure that whoever picks him up is there on time. You know how impatient he gets."

"I will," he said, quickly, eagerly, "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I'm not capable of writing stories that don't have cats in them.
> 
> \- One of my favorite things that got cut out in the movies was how Crookshanks stole the passwords to Gryffindor Tower and gave them to Sirius Black. There was some canon inspiration there.
> 
> \- Muggle AUs intimidate me, which makes writing this difficult. Fun, but very difficult. Please be patient with updates.
> 
> \- Finally, I know I said I'm the author and not the narrator, which is accurate, but everything stated about black coffee drinkers is true. Die mad about it.


End file.
